


Silent Spider

by Leara, Norimn



Category: Avengers (2012), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aaaand... more angst, Angst, Angsty Stuff, Clintasha - Freeform, F/M, Future, Future Fic, Maiming, More angst, Mutilation, Post-Avengers, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 16:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 82,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leara/pseuds/Leara, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norimn/pseuds/Norimn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?</p>
<p>Also posted on FFN.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally got this thing on here. It's been on FFN for a month. 
> 
> I don't own the Avengers or the characters used here. Obviously.

_Vienna, Austria_

The abandoned rooftop was exactly like any other rooftop he had ever been crouching atop of for three hours of rain, leaning over a sniper scope. His clothes were drenched by the motherfucking weather that had been brewing for the last couple of days, caring little about the humans its rain troubled. Like a mighty beast, it growled and grumbled in the horizon, threateningly sending an occasional thunder echoing from the western mountains. The archer perched on said rooftop removed his gaze from the scope momentarily to eye the misbehaving weather with mirthful malice before resuming his task. Whatever term the population and local meteorologists assigned the mischievous rumble, the man wearing dark clothes soaked by its rain _knew_ better, or to be technically accurate, worse. This wasn't _thunder_. Thunder was intruding, mighty, distracting and a nuisance. This—background noise easily ignored—was nothing compared to what he'd witnessed firsthand, which frankly made anything else pale in comparison.

He readjusted his position and winced lowly under his breath as his bad knee protested slightly due to the cold rain and stillness. The hood of his fieldwear had admitted defeat and most of his hair clung wet to his forehead. The purpose of this mission wasn't blatant termination, not primarily, so he'd been forced to leave behind his favorite weaponry, the one that he was notoriously known for and hence, assigned him his name and reputation as an archer. This mission demanded discretion and so he was forced to rely on more modern weaponry (although he was sure that it wasn't an insult to his beloved bow or his skills concerning it to have been assigned such a mission). He generally accepted any missions that came his way and didn't involve physical contact with people, good or bad. The distinction really wasn't easy to make anymore and luckily it wasn't his job to tell them apart.

He had remained undetected for the past many hours—hours before the rain began to interrupt his otherwise remotely pleasant and tolerable stakeout. His displeasure served nobody, so he pushed the discomfort out of his mind, focusing on the task at hand. He had catalogued the blurry movements observed by the infrared on the tablet pressed between the rooftop and his stomach. He wasn't exactly known for delicacy when it came to standard-issue equipment, but he was pretty sure he'd receive an unforgiving reprimand if he managed to ruin yet another tablet. Normally he wouldn't care, but his handler was one of the few people he actually genuinely wanted to remain in his life and not blow off like he usually did. One of the reasons was that he tolerated his regular bouts of lone wolf, reckless behavior and overall attitude.

His stomach rumbled and his left hand grabbed for the front pocket of his backpack without removing his eyes from the scope in search for a granola bar that was as tasteless as it was nutritious. Even without the scope, his eyesight was decent—beyond so, if he had to cut his modesty, but since there was no one to harass, he cared shit about such things. He preferred solo missions and was thankful that the organization that retained him—'employed' was such an ambiguous phrase, considering it had been over a year since he'd actually been to one of their bases and only kept in contact via shady emails, drop offs, and phone calls—had finally understood that he worked best alone, no exceptions. 

His brain worked against him and flared at that statement but he cut it off before he could delve further into the personal hell his mind had become these days. He'd gotten the mission briefing two days ago and frowned at its classification but shrugged it off. He didn't do missions that required commitment, but as long as he wasn't expected to socialize and go undercover—actually tolerate these people, whomever they may be and have done—he wasn't about to turn down work. Although his patience was incredible, he grew restless on his own. He needed these missions, in spite of malicious weather and protesting limbs, to go on and keep him from his own mind.

It hadn't always been like this. He remembered a time where he appreciated downtime and indulged in entertainment beyond lonely local reruns of shows he'd originally watched on his couch back in his apartment in the U. S., which had probably had three tenants since his own tenancy expired. Occasionally, he missed that life and the regular trips to headquarters, even the shitty plumbing and narrow thresholds. Now, he depended on month-to-month leases of rooms that didn't even receive pest control, in various European cities. As much as he could pretend that the downsides to living on-base overruled the advantages, it still irked him that he'd twice woken up to the glinting eyes of a rat, most recently this morning. It was also demanded of him to do his own cleaning, washing and cooking, which meant he lived off takeout too often to be considered healthy. He tried to cook at least one meal a week from scratch, but missions—especially like these—had other plans and often interfered. The rodents might be his sole company but he was not _that_ desperate. In fact, the solitude was voluntary on his part. Snipers rarely needed backup and he was competent enough to survive on his own. 

He worked better alone, and after half a dozen partners—amateurs and experienced agents alike—his employers had realized what he'd adamantly insisted from the very beginning: their archer was meant to work alone, despite irregular successes in the past. No, he'd declined partners and disavowed them after the last one—the _only one_ —had skipped out on him nearly five years ago. Five years later, he was the furthest thing from allowing someone that close again. 

His arm muscles tensed as he thought of her before obstinately banishing her to the part of his brain that didn't distract him and act like a jack-in-a-box. He hadn't thought of her in two months, which was progress, but then little things would remind him of the days where he was younger and less bitter (but not less jaded) and part of a functional partnership that most of his handlers and fellow agents wouldn't believe if he decided to inform them. No, he'd just about pushed away everybody that had witnessed the partnership, and death had taken some of them, as was so frequently the case with spies and federal agents—just about anybody that finds themselves on one side or the other of a gun. Suffice to say, he hadn't kept in touch with the persistent ones that continually defied death. 

The guys he was currently surveying weren't harmless, nor did he believe them an actual threat, but most of the missions he fulfilled anymore weren't like that; he took out bad guys preemptively before their tendons could spread and directly threaten S.H.I.E.L.D. and their agenda. They were plenty of dangerous, but danger was all relative. The disorganized terrorists could be as destructive as the cunning criminals in the world of today. No, his job was observation and initial assessment. He was surprised they even considered his words valid at this point, but then again, his skills hadn't faded, merely his tolerance for people and interaction. 

He wasn't totally separated from civilization. He chatted with his landladies and landlords, attempted a smile to the guy that sold him his takeout, he just didn't involve himself in any manner that could be interpreted as voluntary or interested. He avoided clingy types. He knew that a person couldn't just distance himself from human society without mental repercussions. It was just easier not to establish ties that could be severed by death or betrayal and abandonment.

Yeah, he wasn't nominated for faith in humanity, but so what. He was an archer, a sniper, an executioner, and mercenary, and occasionally, a spy. Hope wasn't a requirement. Honed skills like aim, agility and the ability to stay alive and dodge bullets, and various other weapons (and operate those weapons), were. What little loyalty he had left ensured his employment by S.H.I.E.L.D., an organization whose members themselves were shady and of less conviction than your average butcher. He took his missions and performed them mostly successfully. Distance allowed him a god's eye view that often, coupled with his assessing mind, allowed him to predict the result of unfolding events. Or, simply put, when and who to shoot to incite chaos or to leave a murder undiscovered for hours. He could do both. 

He hadn't done intimate missions for years. He hadn't done up and close assassinations in years, either. He worked best on the end of a scope where he relied on a weapon, his eyesight, and the target profile his handler usually supplied him with along with a location. Currently, Vienna was such a case although the sniper rifle was merely precaution, should opportunity strike. He'd read the file about the group. Vienna was merely one of their outposts but had the potential to develop at a dangerous pace if fueled properly. He'd been in Austria for a week, drifting across Europe as he received and fulfilled missions per the request of his handler at S.I.D., the Europe-based branch of S.H.I.E.L.D., before he received the mission regarding the surveillance of the band of mercenaries that went by some fancy Latin name that mattered little in his assessment. Something about lions and Romans—he'd looked it up before putting up his stakeout equipment. 

From his spot, he could watch all exits of the supposedly abandoned chemical plant that laid crammed against alleys and backs of warehouses and a former carnival field—an odd place for crime to be brewing and yet unsurprising to him. Crime wasn't picky when it came to locations. He'd seen drug deals in slums and in the suburbs, in rich neighborhoods and on the street outside shops that earned more in single purchases than he made in a year. Murder, robbery, rape, child abuse, corruption, and solicitation likewise. Whoever they were, he wasn't interested, or rather, he was interested but only because S.I.D. was, and thus, S.H.I.E.L.D. was. It really was the other way around, as he suspected S.I.D. merely followed the wishes of S.H.I.E.L.D. except in Europe, but he didn't ask questions. 

Nightfall wouldn't arrive for two hours yet twilight seemed to have settled already, which was perhaps why a vehicle drove up to the street aligned with the chemical plant's barbed wire fence. Nightfall tended to give people the wrong impression; the impression of safety. He was more than willing to give it to them, as they were more inclined to make mistakes when they thought themselves safe and unwatched. 

He pressed himself lower as he looked through the scope and got the license plate to the dark gray Skoda. He hastily typed it in as he watched the first silhouette exit the car. He was your average run-of-the-mill thug, broad shoulders, ex-military stance, black blazer over a bland t-shirt, carrying a concealed weapon. The thug scanned the area and the archer ducked soundlessly to avoid detection, counting mentally to ten before reappearing in time to see a blond exit the door on the side of the passenger's seat. The second man's stance was more casual, so not military, but more open with his gestures, wearing jeans and an unzipped hoodie over a shirt. He was less bulky, more lean and agile, moving with the gracefulness of a great cat and not a wall of muscle like his companion. The archer's mind quickly assessed him to be armed—but not at the waist or shoulder, but the ankle. It took longer to draw a gun from there, or a knife for that matter. He obviously wasn't about to enter a hostile environment. The agent on the rooftop made a mental note of that information but didn't recognize his face from any of the sparse files his handler had provided. He hadn't expected him to.

He thought the men fully arrived until the blond suddenly turned around and grabbed the door handle to the backdoor, only to back away in a stumble as it opened on its own accord (well, not exactly but as the person who'd opened it remained out of sight due to the angle, he stuck with that description). Clint grimaced in semi-confusion—he'd thought them alone, arriving by pair. Whoever was seated in the back had the second man's respect and fear. The blond smirked knowingly and the fear passed as he rose his hands in surrender, amused. The tinted glass had prevented Clint from getting a good look, but now that his attention was there, he couldn't help but notice the changes in the man's body language as a third figure slipped out of the car with ease. It took him only a second to notice the feminine curves, but the movements were contradictory and therefore it took him another full three seconds to verify that it was indeed a woman that invoked such fear. The first man merely watched.

She wasn't tall or particularly physically imposing—at least not from a distance—and wore slim jeans, heeled practical boots and a coat that flared at the knees. Like her companions, she wore dark colors but her hair gave it away. A vibrant red, even tamed into a knitted braid that looked like it had been combed tight enough to pull out hair, that made Clint inhale sharply in a moment's remembrance. _She_ had had vibrant red hair, truly auburn but brought alive by dark clothes and pale skin. His gaze lingered brazenly and he told himself it was out of professional ambition and not foolish hope that he studied her movements and appearance.

His breath hitched when she turned her head and copied the first man's scan, only this time, Clint couldn't tear his eyes off her, removing himself from the scope to see her without the equipment, freezing when her eyes met his from 100 feet away. He stiffened, suddenly feeling as if submerged in icy water and burned alive. His throat thickened and he choked on his own tongue, astounded and unable to process proper thought.

Maybe one of the reasons to throw himself into work so feverishly five years ago had been due to an inevitable sense of self-destruction and a foolish hope that maybe—just _maybe_ —he'd see her again. There was only one person worthy of the mention and designation of _her_. The person who evidently still managed to reduce him to uselessness with her mere appearance. It was foolish really. It was insane. Hadn't they already done this dance of recruitment and defection? Wasn't that the definition of insanity—repeating the same thing, expecting different results? It had taken him years to get to a point of acceptance of her sudden departure from S.H.I.E.L.D.—not understanding, mind you, but acceptance that he, Clint Barton, was partnerless and there was nothing he could do about it.

All those years' worth of self-discovery came crashing down as that initial anger and sense of betrayal flooded back at the mere sight of her. Because he had known her for long enough—yet not enough, apparently—to know when he was staring at Natasha Romanov, Black Widow, redhead and lethal assassin.

All these thoughts assaulted him in the brief moment he locked gazes with her before she broke away, resuming her chat with her companions.

“Tasha,” he said and the nickname came as natural to him as breathing normally did and yet it broke with strain of emotion.

She didn't acknowledge him and if possible, it angered him more. He tightened his grip around the weapon until he realized what he was doing and immediately backed off, trying to control his pants with breathing exercises. He didn't tear his eyes off the trio, though, wanting to confirm that Natasha—goddamn, fucking Natasha bullets-and-leather Romanov—had joined the other side. Or should he say rejoin? He'd been goddamn naïve to think she'd settle down or join a governmental agency somewhere else, but no, she had to go and do the one thing that hurt him more than leaving him had—going rogue and bad.

Natasha had always been bad, had always had the potential for bad things, but never with ill intent. She didn't categorize her victims as good people or bad people—(at least, she hadn't five years ago)—and he'd believed her to be generally in want of a normal life after everything she'd been through. He refused to see the relapse for what it was—obviously nobody was forcing her to do anything, he could read as much off her body language and he stifled a kick into the gravel of the rooftop. Nobody forced Natasha to do anything she didn't want to do. And so Clint looked, desperately, for an ulterior motive, an angle, anything that would explain—that _could_ explain—Natasha's cooperation with this group.

She seemed _downright_ friendly and it was unbearable. No stiff movements to insinuate a new alliance. Even worse, his own body was failing him by responding to the knowledge and confirmation that she was _alive_ , and it was unbearable not to hate her.

The moment the trio entered the warehouse and Clint was allowed to remove his gaze from the scope, he sat down, back against the roof's edge, breathing slowly, surreally. He felt like he'd been crushed, crushed by a fata morgana like a thirsting man in the desert. He cackled, lowly and bittersweetly like a madman as he reached realization. Crushed by Natasha Romanova, crushed like any man exposed to her wiles would. That was before, however, his eyes darkened with determination. That was before he expected shots from gunfight to banish the doubts he was experiencing. No, hours passed before the men and woman split amicably, and Clint had a new target, chosen specifically and without permission.

Natasha Romanova—or whatever name she went by—had crimes to answer for; she had questions to answer and a fucking explanation to offer by the time he got his hands on her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?

_Vienna, Austria_

Elias hadn't just one day woken up and decided to become a criminal, let alone a mercenary of his current caliber. It had been a gradual process that had occurred as the result of tragic events in his young but already colorful life. He came from a family of drifters, which (fortunately) for most parts translated to the occasional worrying pattern of unemployment, but had manifested as an aversion to lawfulness and legality in Elias and his older brother. Fate (or more precisely, goons) had stripped Elias' brother of his prowess and subsequently his life early in their tenure as frauds and robbers and whatever fitted their target group, and it had been a great loss to Elias and his family, but he'd mourned his brother and invested himself in the tempting, up-and-coming ways of the Leonum Tarpeius, an organization that relied upon young merchants and mercenaries such as himself to thrive and remain undetected from the prying eyes of the law by constantly moving its bases across European cities and capitals.

Elias had never been one for travel, but his brother had, and so, when Moritz came to him and told him of the charismatic ways of Tarpeius' leaders, he figured _why not_. He joined the group in Marseilles, and traveled, honoring his brother, through Europe during his missions, getting glances of cities he'd never had the pocket change to visit. Sure, not all of the approaches they used were nice, but Elias had always been a very versatile person with loose morals. It helped in his line of business, and Tarpeius and its members taught him better than any single mentor could. His family, having shunned and disowned him by the age of fifteen, became a distant memory as some of the more likeminded (and often, like-humored) thieves, murderers, and explosives experts befriended him in an almost brotherly fashion. Soon, home became the wickedness of Tarpeius, and Elias developed skills that would have awed his brother, had he not been stupid enough to indebt himself to the mob after losing his primary means of income.

Elias didn't pretend to understand the inner workings of Tarpeius, and, as so many others, chose to look the other way when representatives arrived and relayed news of success or (rare) failure. He noticed the pattern and schedules, but never with ill intentions and the purpose of further distribution. He'd heard enough stories from the members to know exactly what find of fate befell a traitor. He'd never claim to understand why _she_ was in charge of the little band of social and legal misfits, for instance, although he had been among the people that cowered if her scrutiny strayed him too long or intensely. He might have been curious but he wasn't that curious.

She wasn't a nice person; none of them were. The organization housed villains, criminals, murderers, and kidnappers and people nifty enough to whip up explosives strong enough to level city blocks from toiletries—anybody with a useful skill to the ruthless people at the top. The recruitment game was all about recommendation and knowing the right people. Moritz had thought him a nice addition, and so he'd been welcomed—eh, somewhat. It was always about proving oneself to these people, which was why Elias had been puzzled as to why she got to be top dog of the small portion of the worst. He had no idea how or exactly when she'd entered the game of the Tarpeius, but she seemed a skilled player already as if she'd been its funder, supporter, and co-creator.

He'd been here for eight months so far and although he wasn't the most frequently used Leon—as they were called—in the operation, he wasn't getting the rookie tasks anymore either. He had a good head on his shoulders—one had to, to have been a fraud, although Elias had now broadened his skillsets to participation of every vile act imaginable—and had admittedly never been the most silent of objectors. He'd occasionally voiced his puzzlement, only to be shot down by a growl, or a look that questioned his overall loyalty in one mere glare. He couldn't help it—he had just been unable see how one woman (and it wasn't the woman part that bothered him although, admittedly, he might have been less bothered had she been a man) could obtain so much power by doing frankly nothing. It was infuriating when everything about Tarpeius was based on earning your position.

She frequently visited the compounds. It happened a lot, as anything but would incite mutiny in a band with as vague alliances as this lot, but there would always be this tension in the air, this anticipation. Some waited for her to fail and be able to pinpoint her utter incompetence (it hadn't happened yet), some worshipped her with admiration (which Elias couldn't see the point of) and then some feared her with a passion usually reserved for the true predators of their world. Elias had been called too green to not pick up on and know of the real danger she posed, which he'd taken as an insult to his attentive skills. That was before he grew to notice her. 

When she arrived in the Viennese temporary base to overlook progress and shortcomings, Alfredo was the first to start mocking her, per usual fashion. Lately, he'd been one of the only ones, as she'd gained quite the reputation. Alfredo had a big mouth and it clearly bothered him that she possessed the same rank as him when he'd fought to be a lieutenant of Desta's and hadn't witnessed her do an equal portion of work to receive the same. Perhaps her reaction—or lack thereof—was part of why she had been awarded the position. She was unflappable to disdain and mockery. Despite his insults and his insinuations, she never struck out, as many would have. She merely smiled a wicked smile that promised cruelty, but never made a claim to undo him. It was enough insinuation to how damn dangerous she could be, but without proof, many—Elias, too—chose skepticism. Alfredo used it to fuel his teasing as it only proved his point. 

What leader without a voice could truly lead? 

It had originally taken Elias three visits and several rumors to learn of the woman—Nikolaevna, or the Lioness, although she had many names, few of which were complimentary or flattering—and her disabilities, because she performed her job well enough and he had thought her lack of speech and individual verbal greetings simply part of her cold nature and calm attitude. She walked the thin line of having obtained the trust of the Leons and still being untouchable, something sacred that was above the rest of them in the filthy outposts. She endured catcalls and Alfredo's words of mockery, but she held the support of the boss, so most were smart enough to back off once her glare turned individual. 

That was, however, until he one day by chance sat down next to her whilst eating takeout. Upon realizing his mistake at his proximity, he became uncertain of whether to move or stay completely still in an attempt to hide his presence, but she had known— _of course_ she'd known. Reluctantly and unsurely, he'd offered some of his Thai food and been astounded when she'd accepted. She'd eaten in silence and he had stayed, watching her as unsurely as a schoolboy with a crush. He'd been stuck between fascinated and scared righteously out of his mind. 

"Hey…" he'd tried, gesturing towards the half-devoured food that he'd picked up from a local shop. "Not half bad." 

She looked up once and shrugged nonchalantly. In the flickering and sparse light, she looked so… human, exhaustedly human. Her lips moved and only halfway through the sentence did he catch on. '– _worse places, I suppose._ ' He must've screwed up his face—and encountered her one of her patient days—because next thing, she chuckled at his dumbfounded expression. A soundless chuckle but it brought a temporary light to her face. A brief smile to crack the façade of a numb warrior. 

Ever since that, he'd bravely sought her out. The ones that noticed called him insane—befriending a Lioness, especially Nikolaevna! A sure way to die an unpleasant death! Those were the words of his peers, not the supporting ones, but the realistic ones. He supposed she was considered attractive, he confessed to his comrades. She must've read it on his face the next time they 'talked' (for the lack of a better word, as he usually ranted to fill the silence)—she read faces as others read words on the page, as fluently as the best storyteller or poet—because she was frank and said that she was not interested in romance or taking him to bed. 

The way she carried herself was downright scary and so it fitted in with the rest of her companions. Elias and his fellow Leons didn't doubt that she could do harm, alright, she _reeked_ of potential deadliness. After watching her face—being _allowed_ to watch her face, he began to understand her perfect mask. She didn't have trouble expressing herself; she did, however, possess the gift of having been bestowed the perfect control of every feature. She never used Elias as her interpreter—although he was one of few that didn't have to stutter through broken sign language, and he chose to interpret it as a sign of respect towards the friendship they'd established and as a means not to tarnish it. 

Nikolaevna was an enigma wrapped in a puzzle of insinuations. The fact that she'd chosen to settle down with the Leons should be flattering (and was) if it hadn't been so goddamn unnerving in the first place. She moved like something otherworldly—given her deadliness, perhaps 'underworldly' was a more adequate description, Elias had mused with a grin as she arrived. 

That was, until he heard the loud crack that silenced the room, followed by an inhumane scream and cry of pain that was drowned in gurgles, which puzzled Elias as he knew there to be no water in the makeshift office from which it came. The Lioness had entered few minutes ago along with a guy that specialized in cleanup (a weird choice of partner, considering the man they had captured had not said a word despite heavy _persuasion_ ). Elias scanned the room, watching the same expression he possibly wore himself copied on the faces of his oftentimes-roommates and colleagues. Some were disinterested, others horrified, some had eyes gleaming with anticipation and sadistic smirks while some looked like they were battling the urge to vomit, white as sheets, while others resorted to swallowing hard and resuming their tasks to the symphony of a man's pain. 

As far as Elias knew, this wasn't usual business but none of that seemed to matter, as seconds later, muffled but rapid Italian flowed from the man's lips and shadows moved behind the frosted glass door. Nobody dared to interrupt whatever horror took place—although some looked like they were more than eager to participate (and it made Elias queasy to be uncertain of which part they wanted to replace). The mystery of the man had been solved: Italian, probably AISE, but he would not live to give away any intel although Elias pitied him and admired him for his attempt. The Leons regularly captured prisoners, and those who could not be turned and used as double agents or defectors were quietly (or in this case, not so quietly) and quickly dealt with. 

The discreet thump of a body hitting the floor, a wooden chair being dragged across the floor and the doorknob being pressed down announced the finish of the brief but informative and deadly interrogation. Elias didn't doubt his decision to be on the side of Leons—to be on the side of her—when she exited the room, looking ever bit of frigid as she'd been upon entering, not even a droplet of sweat broken on her skin—a skin that he knew to be littered with uneven scars. Her face was barren of emotion, void to the point where Elias was uncertain if he should flee or give her a standing ovation, and luckily he didn't have to make the choice because with curt movements, she declared herself ready to be leaving. 

Part of him—the part that had befriended her, undoubtedly—was disappointed that there would take no conversations place between them and he would not get to see emotion pass her face this time, but he remembered what she was first and foremost, despite her friendship to him. 

She never acted like she owned the place—which she didn't, as people far higher in the organization dropped by as often as she did—yet blended in unnaturally. Elias knew her as a leader and hopefully as a reluctant friend—but nobody could know their mute queen of nightmares. Maybe that was why she was such an excellent messenger—even if caught (even as her former critic, he found that unlikely just by looking at her, the dead man's screams still echoing in his mind) she wouldn't be able to reveal the secrets and probably escape charges. Nobody could prove her allegiance. Who'd be stupid enough to use a mute as a vault? 

A vault, Elias mused. Yeah, perhaps that was an adequate word to use and describe the darkness behind her otherwise light-colored eyes. She never spoke but she also never shared unless inclined and ordered to. Not even when Alfredo became particularly pointed with his comments. Only once had Elias caught her snicker at Alfredo, but she'd morphed into the personification of indifference so fast that it'd been pointblank terrifying to be in the same room. 

He knew two sides of her. One of them was rarely shown, expressed only when they were obscured by darkness or privacy, where he could be lucky to catch a glimpse of the person behind the stoic mask of the Lioness. He hoped to one day get to know that half better than the half that had so easily just broken the Italian man. 

\- 

_United States of America, 4 years and 9 months ago._

\- 

There was something satisfying about a shower following a workout where every muscle and knot had been properly exercised and released. The kind of soreness that accompanied such exercise was downright soothing and a reminder of why exactly he could endure what he did on a daily basis. It was these thoughts that ran through Clint's head at 4 AM in the morning as he tiredly entered his personal space in the crammed darkness after an exhausting lesson in the gym. 

Knowing the exact location and position of the furniture, he spared himself the startling brightness of flipping on the light switch, making his way throughout the room easily. He _was_ an assassin, stealth was sorta his _thing_. Suddenly feeling hungry, he remembered Tasha's offhanded comment about homemade (store-bought, she couldn't cook to save her life—although knowing Tasha, she probably could and had) jam. He groaned as the light from the fridge hurt his eyes and terminated his night vision but overcame the momentary ache as he reached for the jar of the shelf. It wasn't hard to locate it, as it was mostly empty. Not only the shelf, but the entire refrigerating unit. Downtime wasn't exactly spent on grocery shopping. Even if Tasha insisted upon such. 

He found some vaguely edible slices of bread in one of the cupboards, sniffing it before determining that he wouldn't get sick from ingesting it. He smeared the jam over the bread like he hadn't just spent three hours in the gym and chunked it down, halting the grinding and chewing once the unfamiliarly pleasant taste was registered by his taste buds. 

"What the…?"

Warily, he swallowed, furrowing his brows and walking back to the refrigerator to use its light to illuminate the jar from which it came. Upon finding no label informing him of its contents, he paled. _This is it_ , he thought sarcastically, _she finally found a way to kill me_. He knew it! Well, he had suspected it ever since he made that comment by the pool yesterday and received a hell-hath-no-fury glare from his partner. Surely Natasha wouldn't…

"Whatever," he decided, raising his voice. "I'll die with a smile on my lips in sheer defiance!" he vowed with a grin, before deciding that the jam, be it poisoned or not—you really couldn't tell with Natasha—was darn good, unlike every attempt of cooking on Natasha's part he'd seen and, dreadfully, eaten. Maybe she'd stolen it from the S.H.I.E.L.D. lunch refrigerator. Upon second thought, he didn't want to know. People stored all sorts of weird things in there. Anyway, he was more than happy to help her destroy the evidence from the heist. 

He maneuvered through the arrangement of furniture, opting against television as he dumped himself on the couch, moaning in instant relief and pleasure as his sore muscles sunk into the soft cushions. Based on the lack of response to his quite eloquent promise, he figured she would be home soon. She generally tended to inform him of upcoming missions out of experience of how he acted when she went off the radar without his knowledge. He still owed Sitwell for that one, he thought with a grin as he licked his lips, getting the last bit of jam smeared on his face and soon drifting off to sleep. 

The next morning, he woke with a grunt and proceeded to (manly!) roll off the couch and directly into the glass coffee table. Given his excellent skills of deduction and vast intelligence, it took him a couple of seconds to open his eyes and actually register the position of the sun streaming in through his windows and utter a, "Wha—?"

Evidently, Tasha hadn't returned in the wee hours of dawn. He frowned, thinking she would have. Not counting the phone call, he hadn't seen her for two days. Which, given their profession, wasn't anything unusual, but he couldn't help but shake the feeling that something was off. 

"Tash?" he called out, wanting to be sure she wasn't hiding somewhere, silently laughing at his expense (he wouldn't think it below her). Upon receiving no confirmation, he sorely got up and quickly searched the apartment. She was nowhere to be seen and in her closet hung both of her catsuits and traditional missionwear. Frowning, he finally registered the source of his awakening and jogged to the phone in question. 

"Barton," he said. 

" _Is Romanov with you?_ " the no-nonsense voice of Nick Fury demanded. Clint gulped and prepared himself for a sassy reply when the stray thought of defending her came to mind. 

"No…?" he reported hesitantly. Fury rarely lost track of his agents—especially Romanov, for more reasons than Clint cared to account for, simply choosing to interpret it as concern for one of their damn finest agents. His answer was followed by a grunt of frustration and a list of profanities. 

"Why are you looking for Agent Romanov, sir?" Clint asked, trying not to make it an inquiry. 

" _Because, Agent Barton_ ," Fury possibly _growled_ , fuming, as Clint's eyes caught unto something on the kitchen table that he hadn't noticed in the cover of darkness last night. "— _she skipped her debriefing last night after a last-minute mission. Everybody assumed she went_ home." 

Clint ignored—not purposefully—the way Fury's words were laced with contempt and accusation as his eyes zoomed in on the offending item on the table, zoning out. A cut-off lock of crimson hair, left with a purpose, delicately planted against the gabbro countertop. 

_Think of Greece._

" _Agent Barton…?_ "

By the time he regained speech, he stuttered a reply, surprise written in the tone he couldn't conceal or control. "She's gone, s-sir." 

\- 

_Vienna, Austria – Present_

\- 

She had forced herself to continue after the impact of seeing Clint Barton again. At the same time as her body had been telling her to find the best escape route and alert her fellowmen and in a detailed manner, find the part of the plan where S.H.I.E.L.D. had received intel, her mind had been berating him for his recklessness as if she'd still been his partner. 

She quickly shook her head at the notion. Clint hadn't been her partner for five years. It was beyond foolish to even consider the notion. She hadn't been Clint's partner for as long as she hadn't been Natasha Romanov or Natalia Romanova or the countless derivations of a name that hadn't even been hers from the beginning. A name someone had chosen to give her in the irrational hope that she'd be _safe_. She gritted her teeth in sheer disdain at the notion, letting none of the emotion seep through. 

As her mind usually did, it assessed the risk and threat level while she briefly greeted her peers, some with warmer smiles than others. She couldn't deny being distracted, but chose to formulate it as intel rather than something to prevent her from functioning. She might not possess Clint's— _Agent Barton_ , she corrected herself in the hope that it would distance herself from the man she'd left drooling on a couch five years ago—hawkeye eyesight, but she had spotted the edge of a riffle and the subsequent gaping face of the man she'd protected and been protected by for years. 

She swallowed, trying to remind herself that Barton was an obstacle, not a knight in shining armor. He was obviously here on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s orders—his gawking appearance had told her as much, and she didn't know why that made her feel remorseful. 

Previously, it had been easy to confess she held the possibility for being a bitch, outrageously selfish and uncaring. Her departure from S.H.I.E.L.D. said as much and the moment her eyes had locked with Clint's, it had been like a mental revision of every bad thing she'd ever done. Clint had never looked at her with scorn or disappointment or contempt, but here, five years later, it was evident in his features—she'd seen it because he'd even considered masking it. 

It hurt. For a brief moment (she told herself). Because (she told herself) he was _Clint_ , and he'd starred as her conscience for so long that seeing him again had made her scrutinize him for his reaction. It was instinctual and it had taken more than a second to recover and block the rummaging thoughts. 

_Dammit_ if she'd allow him to do this to her. She had reinvented herself, she'd escaped S.H.I.E.L.D., she'd gotten to choose her own damn life, and a single sighting of him was _not_ going to be the brick in that foundation to tear the building down. Natalia shined through and purred wickedly in her mind at the prospect of initiating another hunt, reminiscent of the one that had ended in her recruitment into S.H.I.E.L.D. all those years ago. _Why, Clint?_

She putted on her game face and continued her visit into the outpost that Desta had deemed most adequate for expansion. Evidently not, she mused, if S.H.I.E.L.D. knew about it. It had to be S.H.I.E.L.D. if Clint was here, wouldn't it? She recalled the Clint she'd worked with for several years and confirmed the doubt. The Clint she knew (had known, she corrected with a wince) wouldn't change sides. 

_Because you're not me._

Things went about as well as was to be expected. Alfredo, a competent Leon of the organization and fellow lieutenant to Desta—who incited more fear and respect than Fury ever could without ever raising his voice, partly due to his habits of keeping secrets close to the chest—spat his vice comments and she silenced them, mostly, without incident. 

"Russia!" Alfredo called and there was no fondness to be traced in his voice. Boredly, she turned her head, bracing herself for another halfhearted insult to her incompetence. She was more than content that he was unaware—that the Leonum Tarpeius were unaware—of her past as the Black Widow. In her current condition, she wouldn't be able to parry with the reputation of the Black Widow and she surely didn't want her enemies hot on her tail. Even if Clint was one of them. She gave him a dirty look. "In the back," he whispered in a hiss, and she restrained herself from shivering as his sour breath made her skin rise in goose bumps. She followed him into the office section of the old chemical plant and makeshift base, unsurprised to see a beaten man gagged and ziptied to a wooden chair. 

' _How original_ ,' she thought—and mouthed—but made no effort to inform him that she was communicating due to its sarcasm. She surveyed his—or some other goon's—work with scrutiny. Alfredo was smart but he wasn't particularly creative. The man's head hung with exhaustion and exertion but it was the work of an amateur that was uneducated—but not inexperienced—with the art of torture. In the back of her mind, Natalia, sadism imported by Red Room, positively beamed. It wasn't enough to rattle Natasha, but so soon after seeing the disappointment on Clint's face, she had to bite her lip in resolution. 

"The man was caught lurking. A thorough search provided enough insight to confirm he was following us, but—as I'm sure you _must know_ ," Alfredo hissed, not doing one thing to keep the disdain out of his voice upon addressing her, "Desta likes to know and keep informed of who are of the conviction they know about our movements," he said sourly and she knew that he obviously didn't like that it had been his group that had been under surveillance and even less that he now had to resort to her to solve the problem. 

'Lovely,' she mouthed, knowing that Alfredo was still testing her and it wasn't out of dear friendship and trust that he was letting her do this job. No, these games of his annoyed her, but not enough to confront him—that was what he wanted. 

"Anything you need," the lieutenant said, too sweetly to be genuine. 

She thought for a moment. _You need him afterwards?_ she gestured. He shook his head in a childish act of displeasure. 'Send Claudio, then.'

Claudio was a man whose number one quality was that he had no problem discarding corpses or personal qualms about having a dead person pressed against him for hours. That, and he didn't talk much. If she had to think really long for a third quality, she'd have to say that he was also remarkably quick to catch on. It had been his idea to use the _I'll spare you when she speaks_ approach with an arms dealer who tried to sell the same merchandise twice. Suffice to say, she hadn't spoken and the arms dealer hadn't been spared. Well. That was untrue, he had been spared, but not before promising the souls of all his future grandchildren in exchange for his life along with a profitable future donation to Leonum Tarpeius every month. Truth be told, she hadn't been told to kill him and that had been why he'd lived. When dealing with vague orders, always go with the one whose alternative can always be performed later. 

The Italian—as it turned out—had been trained fairly well, but she'd had decades to perfect her deadly touch, and with a few punches, the Black Widow within had been reawakened and the man had confessed to every bad deed he'd done since the age of sixteen. Mercifully (reminded that a certain archer would be aware), she killed him quickly to the dispassion of Claudio who nodded affirmatively. No pulse. 

She pulled out a sleek notepad from her coat and quickly scribbled down the most important of what the man had said, excluding the anecdotes of his childhood desires, before smirking to Claudio and exiting the office with the body of a dead man lying in his own drool. 

As she fled into the dark night, she restrained herself from looking up, needing only to close her eyes to revise the utter hatred that had flared along disbelief mere hours ago. Yet as she drove, breathless without reason, heart galloping in her chest, she heard a tap on the window and looked to find a helmet-less motorcycle-riding man keeping up next to the car at the current speed, not offensive but intensive. She recognized the eagle insignia on his uniform immediately and swallowed hard, damning herself for the day she chose to go to Vienna for Desta. 

The thunder would have been subtler than the look on his face and she pressed down the accelerator in response. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first 14 chapters will be uploaded fast, whereas I cannot promise the frequency of the succeeding chapters, but they will be posted, trust me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?

_Outer city limits of Vienna, Austria_

The gasoline of the purloined motorcycle lasted through a speedy chase and they were on the outskirts of Vienna before the thought of running out of fuel even strayed Clint's mind. Part of him wondered, with incredulousness, what she was doing—didn't she remember that he was _the_ tracker when it came to _her_? She was his specialty and the years hadn't faded his ability to predict her movements and decision-making skills. It wasn't exactly hard to tail the Skoda until she ditched it for another vehicle with admirable speed and agility that reminded him of who exactly he was chasing. 

People tended to forget that Clint Barton was more than just the archer and the nutcase of S.I.D. He was the boy who'd survived being orphaned and touring with a twisted circus, mentored by a man who'd be considered insane by today's standards, and he was the man who'd killed more men than he cared to think about before the age of nineteen. He was a tracker and more importantly, he'd been _a friend_. He had been a friend of a person who didn't simply _befriend_ and indulge in simple acts of relaxation, such as letting people close and seeing her for who she truly was. At least, that was what he thought he'd been, five years ago. Time tended to change people and experiences reshaped them. She was enough evidence for that even though he refused to see it. 

Clint wasn't sure what his reaction would be if he caught her (although 'caught' was such an ugly phrase that reminded him of a caged bird—the furthest thing from Natasha Romanov). The partner in him wanted to act on instinct and chastise her for her sloppiness. He couldn't believe her betrayal to everything S.H.I.E.L.D. stood for; to everything _they_ had fought hard to protect and ensure. Most of all, he couldn't believe she'd gotten on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar again. On _his_ radar. She was too smart for that. Out of sight, out of mind, and all. Had he been foolish to hope she'd settled down somewhere, living the life she'd dreamed of having? Instead, she'd ended up with people like Leonum _whatever-their-name-was_. They weren't mere crooks and scum. It was fucking organized crime. And if they could get their hands on someone with the skillsets like Natasha Romanov, they were damn scarier than his source had established and than S.I.D. believed them to be. 

_And they need to know that, Barton_ , a voice sounding very much like his handler's reminded him, but he hesitated. Because the hurt of seeing her betray her former employers was less than the initial realization that she'd disappeared without warning from their partnership. It was all about hesitation. He'd managed to talk her into joining S.H.I.E.L.D. once although the mission objective had been to assassinate her on sight. Something about her has made him hesitate—and the fact she hadn't acted on the hesitation after noticing it had made him adamant in his attempt to assign her a second chance. Not only would S.H.I.E.L.D. have lost the unique chance of utilizing her vast experience and skillset, but he wouldn't have gotten the honor of being her partner, of seeing the humanity in emotional eyes after a particularly hard mission. 

In hindsight, those memories were tainted by the bitter hurt of abandonment and the frail doubt and fear that she'd been playing him for all those years of their partnership, the breakdowns purposefully planted by her cunning mind, cultivated by the horrors of Red Room. He was enough of an asshole to doubt all of it and it made him angry—angry with him, angry at her, angry at everything. It was not a good mindset to be of (he _knew that_ ) and rage burned through him, though not as strongly as the hurt and betrayal and goddamn poisonous relief. 

Clint had unknowingly waited five years for this chance (having been restrained by S.H.I.E.L.D. and Fury back when she first left, leaving him a cold trail by the time he'd been released from custody). Part of him hadn't wanted to chase her _then_ , firmly believing in freewill and feebly hoping she'd return. That silly notion had since been overwritten with the bitter taste of betrayal and inward anger, and whatever coursed through his head and veins, he didn't want to hear or contemplate it in the fear that he wouldn't like what her resurfacing was doing to him. 

The car door smacked open mid-drive and he barely registered the moving figure that rolled out of the still-moving vehicle seconds before the car collided with a stone fence, whipping dust and debris into the air—providing an excellent distraction, he had to give her that. He caught sight of the dark coat as she rounded a corner and pressed the accelerator. On foot, she had the advantage of stealth, but he knew her patterns and had the advantage of speed. 

It bothered him that, even amidst the rainy chase, he had no idea if she was leading him on or genuinely trying to escape his passionate hunt. It was an obsession; he couldn't allow her to get away once more, not without telling him what he'd done wrong or hadn't seen five years ago. It wasn't to educate himself on people that he needed the answer. It was to be able to live with himself. And, although he didn't want to admit it, to face those green eyes and confront her (to be re-hurt again upon rejection). 

He was no longer above the people Natasha had so often played so obviously in front of him. He was one of them. And the realization had flooded back as he'd recognized her as if she'd left ten days ago and not five years. 

\- 

_5 years and 1 month ago_

\- 

"I'd never let you run," he vowed softly. 

She stirred from her resting place in his lap. Her eyes sparkled in semi-challenge. "No?" 

"Not without me," he said with determination, playing with a lock of her red hair. 

"If S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't so generous, what would you have done?" _If they'd wanted to kill me when you brought me in. If they are going to stop being generous and forgiving._

Upon realizing the serious topic, he became unsure. "I dunno. If it had been now…"

She looked upwards, catching his eyes. "Yes?" 

He exhaled. "I'd have helped you in a heartbeat." 

"Promise me something, Clint," she murmured, voice wistful at his apparent loyalty. 

"What?" he chuckled. 

"Don't ever do that. Just… don't follow." 

"What kind of talk is that?" he asked, not liking the tone of voice she was using. 

"I'll let you know beforehand, don't worry." 

"How?" he inquired drowsily, half in seriousness. 

"Think of Greece," she said, closing her eyes in peaceful sleep. 

_We've never been to Greece_ , he had wanted to said, then had realized that Greece had been one of the destinations of their hunt. Greece had been the first time he'd been close enough to draw her blood—or, in their case, cut hair with an arrowhead. 

\- 

_Vienna – Present_

\- 

Dammit, _Barton!_

He knew he shouldn't be following her if he wanted to, bizarrely, keep her name and appearance out of his report. That was logic, but Clint Barton had never been a particularly logical person unless it came to trajectories and wind factor. It was one of the more subtle reasons why he didn't have partners, aside from his _charismatic_ personality (and frequent use of sarcasm at the most inappropriate times). 

He'd been forced to discard the motorcycle an alley ago as she'd taken the chase to narrow alleys that he hadn't been able to maneuver the big bike through. In another time, (where he wasn't too preoccupied with having to track his goddamn former partner down as if she was the devil herself) he'd have kept it, finders keepers and all. It was a nice bike. Sure, he'd stolen it, but he figured that he had to enjoy some parts of life. Vintage motorcycles had sort of been his thing for a while. He had beauties stored in a couple places across Europe. 

Now he was running, fueling his muscles with the anger of her recognition. Her face had tinged with numbness, a small spark had flared in recognition as she'd spotted him but done nothing to further communicate. Perhaps out of courtesy, he wondered, a warning. He didn't do subtle with the same grace. He was a hands-on guy. He had caught up with her, the soaked red hair piercing the dark gray night twelve yards in front of him. He must be looking like some psycho, he mused. 

"Natasha!" he shouted, thankful when anger overruled the pathetic desperation he'd thought would penetrate his voice. She stopped, suddenly and surreally and only when he caught up did he realize why: it hadn't been his shouting of her name, it had been the dead end in front of her. As she spun around, he watched her take in the numerous factors, her mind assessing hundreds of options per second. 

Her eyes met his again but rain obscured the emotion—if one were to be found. As he'd changed, she must have, too. His mind provided enough imagery of what she could be thinking about him. Did she feel disgust at his presence as he knew her to be feeling towards the men she could easily trick years ago—if you allowed yourself to be tricked in Natasha's book, you deserved it, and boy, had he allowed himself to fall headfirst. Anger flared in his expression, enough to catch her off guard and he pinned her confrontationally against the nearest dirty back alley wall. She said nothing—unwilling to meet his eyes with anything but resentment and (tellingly) failed. She attempted a frustrated hiss but to no avail. 

He tried to be harsh and harden his features with hatred and disapproval, but could, neither, succeed. For what seemed like eternity, they avoided the other's gaze with breathy gasps. It gave him time to study her close up, to see what the years had done to her in a foolish attempt to try and read what she'd been doing the past five years. His anger became a faint memory and he made the same mistake as others had done an unforgiving number of times in the past. She looked every bit as beautiful as she'd always been, every bit as deadly in the black practical wear that mirrored his own, albeit designed by criminals. The moment he wavered, his expression softening, she took her chance and a sharp jab into his side sent him backwards, a sharp intake of breath interrupting the rhythm that had synchronized to her own. He damned himself for getting lost in the moment. 

From there on, the moment evaporated and he saw her morph into what she'd always been—the Black Widow, danger to all of opposite sex or conviction. She fought ravenously, blocking and parrying his moves almost intimately, cold eyes assessing him for every breath he took and movement he made. He cursed himself for his ridiculous sentiment but was unable to fight back with the same mindless passion. He'd felt dead inside the times he'd managed to forget her betrayal (he could count then with single digits) in the past five years. 

He ducked a painful left hook and barely managed to dodge the roundhouse kick that followed it. His body flooded with adrenaline as his mind flooded with conflict. This wasn't just a criminal—this was _Tasha._

She didn't hold back, and so he ended up on the ground as the result of a momentary slip in balance (he was never trained with the same fervor in close combat)—a moment she had obviously used to her advantage. She didn't pin him down, merely placed her boot-clad foot and calf on his torso, pressing down, applying enough pressure to incite bruises but no crack from his protesting ribs. 

"What!" he shouted in a growl, angry and upset with her. He damned himself for losing himself and cracking his façade in the foolish hope she'd do the same. He struggled against her weight and she kneeled down, straddling his abdomen in a fashion that wasn't the least reassuring or pleasant—not with the cold look in her eyes. Her strong thighs squeezed his sides and she'd caught his hands mid-air, keeping them stiffly secured with equal pressure. She looked like she seethed inner rage, the poster child for the success of the creation of an obedient assassin. The prospect of leaving her was as unbearable as having to eliminate her. "Do it, Tasha! Do it!" 

He gritted his teeth and rain began to pour and something stirred in her features. In the cover of the night, her eyes turned expressive and seemed to tell him—briefly—of regret. It was gone before he could analyze it properly. The apparent stalemate could be ended easily. Anger burned through him. 

Clint had been the compliant albeit standoffish S.H.I.E.L.D. (and later, S.I.D.) agent since her departure. How long had it been? Obviously not long enough if her very presence and touch made him crack and tremble. It wasn't even skin-on-skin contact; she was wearing leather gloves. He wanted to cackle out like a madman. He'd found her, only to have lost her. It was _pathetic._

She opened her mouth as if to speak, as if to convey some explanation but the words died on her lips. She caught his eyes with reluctance, no longer actively trying to harm him. The rain splashed against their faces (and, in her case, back) in what would for sure result in a cold. Did she have someone to tend to her, then? "What, waiting for your goons to come finish it off?" he spat, furious at her betrayal, thinking of how familiar she'd been with the members of the criminal group. She was better than this! Bitterness at her departure from S.H.I.E.L.D. roared in him. He wanted to hurt her, he wanted to make her hurt like he'd been hurt, but he knew better and guilt rose to the surface. 

'No,' she mouthed, letting go of his hands, eyeing him strangely as if trying to assess what he'd do. He was trying to assess the very same. Not what she'd do, but what he would do. He knew what he _should_ do. She was the enemy—what he'd seen had been enough to prove that. His throat was sore from emotion. He wanted to cry and sob and did none of those things. None of them were useful or pragmatic, and if there was anything Clint Barton had been the past five years, it had been useful and pragmatic, almost numb to a fault. 

"Tell me this isn't true," he begged, his voice soft and breaking. He made no attempt to get up as she detangled herself, putting her walls back into place. "Tell me you're working for someone. Not the guys in there!" 

_Someone like me_. He could name dozens of intelligence agencies that would have taken her in. Yet she did nothing to convince him that was the case. 

He hadn't cracked for five years. For five years, he'd eaten the emotions that toyed within him and ate him up in the wee hours of dawn where insomnia was at its fullest. He had mumbled _I'mfine_ to whoever had dared to confront him until Fury had shipped him off to S.I.D. as their new problem. 

Anger took her features but depleted too quickly into regret and indifference. Her shoulders sagged as her breathing returned to normal. His hands scraped at the ground as he got up. She looked so… devastatingly similar to the partner he'd had five years ago. The same pale skin, the same vibrant red hair (albeit slighter longer by now, but if he knew her well enough, she changed hairstyles frequently), the same tension in her body that wouldn't fade, as it was a physically expressed sign of her alertness. As if it had been a month since their departure, and yet so different as if he couldn't recognize the Black Widow in front of him. 

'Go.' She didn't trust her voice and he nearly snickered. Didn't he deserve some sort of explanation? No. She'd _left_. He was too unimportant to tell anything. She hadn't even told him that she left. One day he'd just been abandoned. Left to return to solo missions and sniper scopes and lonely microwave dinners in foreign cities. 

"No," he protested. _I just found you_. Protest flooded her face and she grew annoyed and angry at his display of disobedience. Her body language grew confrontational and she conjured a knife from somewhere on her body, stalking predatorily towards him. Her eyes asked him not to make her do this. They spoke of softer things. 

She rolled her eyes and let out a frustrated groan. The knife embedded itself an inch from his ear into the wooden door. She hadn't been trying, he could tell. 'Alone?' she mouthed. 

"From the day you left," he said without hesitation. Something crossed her features. "S.H.I.E.L.D. knows I'm in Vienna, yeah." For some reason, the words came out reproachful and judgmental. "No backup," he informed her and wondered if his contact would find his corpse dead in the river the next day. It disturbed him less than it should have. He was also stretching the truth a little, because it was S.I.D. that backed him, not S.H.I.E.L.D. although he suspected they'd never lose track of him, either. 

He shouldn't trust her. She had had five years to forget about him and make new allegiances and foster trust issues with someone else. Yet the look in her eyes informed him that there had been nobody like him, defiant in his quest to humanize her. It had been suicidal then and it was even more now, but if he hadn't been important enough to tell five years ago, at least he'd be important enough to kill now. He didn't want to speculate too long on that. Natasha had always made him adamant to an unhealthy degree. She'd held his respect, his trust, his life on numerous occasions, his friendship and, to an unspecifiable degree, his love. Not the sappy movie love, but enough of it to make his heart singed with repressible jealousy when she was assigned intimate missions. They'd never spoken of it, but she'd known. She had known that it bothered him when it shouldn't have. And because he was her partner—her _friend_ , best friend even—he'd repressed it, embraced its presence but never spoken of it. That was the kind of love between them, devotion. 

It had still been new and experimental when she'd quitted on him and on S.H.I.E.L.D. She'd had the audacity to run and turn herself into the escape artist they'd all speculated she could be, leaving him looking like the grandest fool alive. 

Something very un-Tasha happened. (But then again, she'd made a habit of taking every expectation of her and shattering it, and just because he was the best at reading her didn't mean he fully read her and predicted these bouts of unpredictability). Her expression softened—had she been this expressive in their partnership, he had to wonder?—and she began to walk away. She didn't run, she didn't prepare another attack (he wouldn't think it below her—she'd tramped all over his dignity and liability before) but halted after a few steps, looking back as if no time had passed and she was irascibly waiting for him to join her to mess hall and scare the living shit out of some recruits. Perhaps it was the vulnerability that determined his choice. 

He wasn't sure why he followed the redhaired assassin, either. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?

_Vienna, Austria_

Thoughts raced a million miles per hour in the mind of the mute Natasha, formerly Romanova, currently… well, any guess would be more correct than what she currently thought of herself. She hadn't soul searched for a while, if ever. She hadn't been 'Natasha' for years, although she'd used it for a pseudonym the first six months after her unconventional retirement from S.H.I.E.L.D. By the time she'd finally landed herself—although it hadn't been a goal of hers, not initially—in Desta's midst and he'd asked her name, she'd hesitated. 

Hesitation got you killed. Her instructors had taught her that. Kills had to be swift and clean, no room for hesitation—no room for error. Hesitation had been something she'd tried throughout her career to avoid with blunt strokes of violence and action. She could hesitate for the sake of the mission, but it hadn't been part of her fostered nature. Not until she saw the same thing in the eyes of her accepted executioner—their hunt had practically been a casting process, telling herself she'd only go down if at the hands of an assassin that at least _understood_ the artform instead of going down due to a rookie's lucky shot—and experienced an involuntary, intrusively so, version of it herself. To this day, she wasn't sure why she'd allowed Clint Barton to disarm the Black Widow (although she could do plenty of damage without weapons, being one herself), only that it had felt like the right thing to do. Any man worthy of eliminating her had to be worth a couple of months of consideration, right? Ultimately, she thought it had been his conviction that had decided it. 

Desta had changed his question. _What would you like to go by? Who do you want to be?_ And even years later, it was due to that statement that she remained in Leonum Tarpeius. _What would you like to be?_ She'd picked a name off the top of her head and stuck to it, and so had Desta, even if he'd realized, before the name left her tongue, that she wasn't Nikolaevna. She might have been, in a different lifetime, but she didn't contemplate the past and what ifs. She hadn't meant to, at least. 

As she'd established herself and reinvented herself, she had, weekly, found herself missing _him_. It had been subtle at first, as she'd prepared for the feeling, but it was small things, like being ready to argue what kind of topping that had to go on the pizza (she'd never understood why he insisted upon pineapples, but had given into nostalgia one evening in Paris). It was the sensation of movement behind her, the phantom of a person like a lost limb. She found herself expecting the man she'd abandoned to turn up at all places. It was _weakness_ and it was purposeless. She'd thought herself ridden of the horrible habit until she'd spotted a man on a rooftop two hours ago, soiled by the rain, courtesy of Austrian weather. She'd thought herself having moved on until she'd felt that familiar tug in her chest and mental infuriation at his bold sloppiness. She had been meaning to harm him in the brawl, but not truly and it had angered her—her, who'd been told never to fight unless you were willing to end it. 

Clint was an idealist, even behind his pessimistic nature and world-weary sarcasm. He was right in his eternal belief that what S.H.I.E.L.D. did help people—innocents—to an idealist's way of life. That was the problem with Clint; even at this point in his career where he'd witnessed so much suffering and scorn and civilian casualty, he believed in the best of people. He genuinely wanted to help people. He wanted to be on the right side of justice, but to people like Natasha, the whole world was too damn subjective to ever be _right_ , and she usually ended up on the side that paid well or fitted her ulterior motives. However, after S.H.I.E.L.D., she hadn't had any ulterior motives and for a while, it had been confusing. It took her a few jobs to realize that it was no longer in her interest to play hero for whatever government would have her fake credentials. 

Events had lead to her current handicap and she'd thought herself permanently broken by an even more broken world. Her expertise lied in manipulation—without a voice, her best tool of manipulation was taken from her hands ruthlessly swift (oh, she recognized the irony). Desta had been there, a beacon of possibilities and she'd despondently accepted the pitiful job. 

Of course there had been other turning points in the last five years. Even to Desta and his lieutenants and their 'past doesn't matter' policy, she'd had to prove herself. Somehow, she'd accepted—and she had been surprised to one day discover it and the relief it brought along with a sense of loss—that she wasn't the Black Widow anymore. The Black Widow had functioned perfectly and used all assets to get what her employers wanted and later, what _she_ wanted. The Black Widow had defected to an American agency and had had a partner. And then—this was where things such as lines got blurry— _Natasha_ had run. She hadn't used the Black Widow call sign or persona since. 

It hadn't been easy; hell it hadn't even seemed feasible. Physically, it had been an easy task. She'd known the weaknesses in their protocols for years. Emotionally, however, was another story. She knew agents were monitored from the moment they stepped onto the bases and especially headquarters from which she'd operated when she hadn't been deployed. She was a spy and it hadn't been hard to disrupt and subsequently remove the hypodermic tracking device. What had been hard had been the deafening silence in the familiar apartment, not because if the absent owner (she'd told herself) but due to the overwhelming memories. It was a sanctuary, a place she'd felt safe upon entering and that didn't require of her to search and spent hours easing into. It was hers and it was Clint's, and it was a hell of a lot more complicated than most partnerships at S.H.I.E.L.D. Even with her vast experience, it managed to be _unique._

He managed to make her feel like the only person in the room despite numerous aliases and disguises. He managed to make her feel like the most important person in it, too. 

She had known the odds and probabilities of encountering him again, of encountering S.H.I.E.L.D. again (although she'd always known their operations in Europe to be limited). It had always been at the back of her mind, ignored with a passion as if sheer willpower alone could make the odds less. She had compartmentalized it, to be honest, into the depths of her mind where the past she could not atone for and could not let distract her (as it would drive her mad upon exploration) rested. Out of mind, out of sight. 

Everything in her training had told her to kill Clint Barton—then and now. Everything she'd ever felt told her otherwise. Clint's arrogance and cocksureness was so American and everything her instructors had warned her against. She surprised herself with her compliance and attitude as she defected. This time, though, it wasn't her doing the following, it was him, and it was foolish and it was _comforting_. She wasn't supposed to do this, but the look on his face had been devastatingly blunt. 

Clint Barton had a death wish. He had also managed to track her down, more or less (god, she hoped so) without S.H.I.E.L.D.'s assistance or backup. 

And she had no idea how to resolve it. 

Or if she even wanted to. Because, even though she should feel furious at the powerlessness, it was kind of nice to have him. 

\- 

Clint Barton, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., had many times been in situations he hadn't been entirely sure of how he'd gotten there, oftentimes due to involuntary drug use or pure talent. S.I.D. Agent Barton had been in less of those situations. Tonight was one of those times. 

He didn't know how, but after numerous shortcuts and alleys that seemingly appeared out of nowhere, she stopped the firm pace, slowing down as she began to ascend the raggedy stairs to an apartment complex that rivaled the ones S.H.I.E.L.D. provided in terms of appliances (or lack thereof). She conjured a key from somewhere on her body—he couldn't determine from where, as he didn't know this fieldwear as well as he'd known the pockets of her Black Widow catsuit—although he could admit to trying out of more than professional curiosity. He observed her curiously in the low light of the hallway, opening his mouth to make some stupid joke, but decided against it, reminding himself that this wasn't a reunion; this didn't mean they'd go back to being _them_. In this light, she looked like a normal person having endured the hardship of the rain, perhaps taken by surprise after a grocery run. And in that moment, he could pretend. 

They entered the small apartment and his eyes scanned the room quickly. He might trust her—for god-knows-what reason that wasn't clear to him at this point—but he sure as hell didn't trust her associates. While he still didn't relax, he frowned when she did, apparently embracing the fact that if he'd wanted to kill her, he'd have done it already. It was unsettling how well she knew him, even after five years—how easily she (appeared to be, at least and made him think she) trusted him and how easily he trusted her back, even knowing he shouldn't. They had never fitted into should-assessments anyway. 

She turned and removed her soaked coat, hanging it on the back of a chair and encouraging him to do the same. She watched him cautiously, but he assessed it to be more out of lack of visitors (and thus, hospitality) than genuine suspicion towards him. She seemed at a loss, conflicted, but if she'd been the least bit angry, they would still have been fighting in the rain. 

His inner child, aggrieved at the denial of confrontation that was as emotionally instable as he felt, rose to the surface and he balled his fists. He wanted her anger, he wanted the Black Widow, he wanted an explanation! Some evidence that she was unraveling in the same fashion. She'd provided him none of the sorts, and he was about to demand one as he felt familiar fingers traveling down his chest. 

"Natasha…" he protested in one breath. He recognized the manipulation. If she thought she could simply trick him into forgetting about the last five agonizing years, she was dead wrong. Yet he couldn't control how his body responded to one touch. He hadn't meant to deprive himself of sexual relations but hadn't done anything to willingly enter a sexual relationship, either. It seemed pointless without her, and he hated how it sounded. What she could reduce him to with one simple touch. He caught her wrist and forced her hand off him, catching her eyes as well. 

She stared back with a pout but also waiting for instruction and permission. She respected him enough, evidently, to cease whatever she had planned. "Tasha…" he whispered, steeping closer despite himself and embracing her in a tight hug, ready to die if that was the cost. She stiffened but didn't fight the gesture and he buried his hand and head in her auburn hair. "God, Tasha," he sobbed and hated himself for it. 

She held him as he encountered the relief at seeing her alive, even if it was after beating him to a pulp. She could have killed him—would have, years ago—should have, if she had any sense of survival—but she stayed, invited him, even. Accepted him. For what purpose, exactly? He knew the way her mind worked and couldn't see an outcome. He breathed in her scent and relaxation flooded his body when his memory confirmed what his sight had already been telling him. 

He was hugging Natasha Romanov. And she was hugging him back. He wanted to stop himself before adding, _and she's the enemy_. His mind would never accept that. That's what he assumed anyway, because he knew S.H.I.E.L.D. had trained him better than to ignore the ugly parts of an assessment. The result was downright heartbreaking (wasn't that _her_ specialty?). 

"What are you doing, Tash?" he whispered, mostly to himself, almost taking it back the moment he'd said it. "What are _we_ doing?" he wondered out loud, offering no multiple choices. 

He urged her to wisely explain herself. He held her while he asked her, wanting to show that a simple explanation—although it was getting harder and harder to come up with one that would suffice to S.H.I.E.L.D. (he had lower standards and requirements, though). Was this some part of a game created by Fury? It had been no secret that their director liked to assign her missions that she couldn't tell him about. It didn't quite fit, in his mind, because Fury had seemed as upset—except Fury didn't get 'upset', he got mad, _dog mad_ —as the rest of them when she bailed and wasn't heard from. If things ever settled down, maybe he'd ask her how she did it. How she managed to escape S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar and attention for five years. 

She reluctantly detangled herself from the hug and stepped back. He recognized that distant look in her eyes, the fleeting gaze, the way she hugged herself as she fought a defensive stance. He watched the fingers of her right hand flex and twitch. She was withdrawing. "It's a simple question, Natasha," he lied firmly, his eyes flickering in anger. 

She shook her head and turned away, mumbling inaudibly. She leaned against the chair, having put even more distance between them. Had this person really been his partner, he asked himself in wide disbelief. 

"You'll take me to bed but you won't talk to me. That's rich, Tasha, really rich. Is that why you hang out with those people? Because it doesn't bother them that you won't look at them? Or do they not have that problem?" he said, anger seeping into his word. He was provoking her, using the least decent of moves and he hated himself for it. He hated himself more than he could ever hate her. 

Her gaze snapped to him and her body language screamed with the promise of physical hurt. He'd hit a tender spot. It wasn't a tender spot, but it was him saying him, and she obviously held him—and his opinions—in some regard. Upon realizing she'd done exactly what he'd wanted, she gritted her teeth. Something else flashed across her face, something he'd been too stunned at seeing to register. Hurt. 

He opened his mouth to take his words back and to apologize but she responded to hurt the way she always had—aggressively, accusatorily. Angrily, she grabbed the collar of her turtleneck, meaning to pull, but his hand caught hers. Her eyes—mad eyes, emotional eyes flooded with anger and regret and confusion—met his, seeking something to react to, softening upon realizing she wasn't gonna find equal rage. He'd been her touchstone in her past as she'd been his. He wondered what would have happened if they both of them had ever gone truly mad and angry, agreeing in their channeled anger. It was a scary thought, given their training. 

"I'm sorry, Tash. It's late and I'm tired and confused. And I don't know what we've got ourselves into. But I don't want to hurt you. I don't want you hurt, _period_ ," he confessed, his thumb running along her forearm, and as he saw his message be accepted in those bright eyes, he rested his forehead against hers, breathing. He felt her relax after several minutes and didn't dare to move away from her. Didn't dare pose the question _why._

Slowly, her hand went back to the collar of her turtleneck, pulling softly in the material, exposing the flesh of her neck and collarbone. He inhaled sharply as he saw what she'd evidently been meaning for him to see minutes ago— then as a means to justify her anger and lash out, now replaced by the unspoken agreement they'd always had as confidants, their rare brand of trust—and he battled the immediate instinct to back off in privacy. She'd interpret it differently. 

The scar was… grotesque. _If_ a doctor had seen it, it had been a poorly educated one or it had been too late. He recalled her alarmingly rapid healing rate. It looked as if the skin had melted and healed at the same time, coming up with an angry pattern of swirls and crevices. It wasn't pretty and it stretched from the bottom of her jaw—it _had_ to have hurt like crazy—to inches above her collarbone, disfiguring the skin of her entire neck in front. It was like an artless child's play dough. He winced in response and fellow compassion. "Tasha…"

He didn't have enough medical experience to know if it'd ever heal to a less aggressive scar. Natasha wasn't vain—God no, she had scars from bullets, knives and barbed wire all over her body, but this looked like fire, and humans and fire didn't generally mix well—but evidently, the scarred area was a sore point. It wasn't an angry red anymore. The skin was pale, sickly so. 

She moved away from his touch as he moved to caress her jawline, just above it, obviously expecting another reaction, disgust, perhaps. "You haven't shown that to a lot, have you? Christ, Tasha, have you even gotten it looked at? How—."

Natasha silenced him with one of her looks. She didn't answer his questions, but allowed the fabric to fall back into place. He stared at it, couldn't help himself—having avoided people had obviously made him tactless, or maybe he was easing into the habits of theirs too fast; exposed flesh had never been an issue between them, not since their early partnership where her nude bluntness had prepared him for an indifference towards tact—and subsequently forced his eyes upwards. 

She gestured for him to wait as she left the living room to search for something. He was insecure enough to listen for a slamming door. The room looked like it wasn't a place used to live in, but rather, crash when sleep refused to be ignored as a need any longer. Was this her home or merely used to which she possessed a key? She'd never liked having quarters at S.H.I.E.L.D., never appreciated the sanctuary of a home, as anything that could be applied to term meant sharing sentiments about it. 

What _was_ he doing? Two hours ago, maybe three, he'd seen her exit the building where the most prominently secretive criminal organization held its rendezvouses calmly. Anger had taken him to an alley where they'd fought as if merely sparring. He knew that if he'd accepted her departure fully, and had let her go, he'd have fought harder and with more venom, but he'd seen her and the whirlwind of emotions he'd always associated with her—and their much-complicated partnership and friendship that shouldn't even have functioned as it did, given their totally opposite views and ideologies—had crashcoursed into him. 

For the first time ever, the brief thought of breaking protocol had even breached him. But, no, he wasn't a traitor. As he gazed upon her, he realized he might have the capacity for it, only because he'd allowed himself to continue caring for a person as jaded and blackened as Natasha Romanov. To him, she wasn't merely that. He saw and had seen the potential good in her when others would have seen an assignment. Even after having been hurt by her, he still did that, foolishly so. 

He was a fucking idiot. He could see that in her eyes. It wasn't condescending. It was simply there. _Clint, you big fat idiot. Why'd you have to care?_ It would have been so much easier if he'd simply never strayed from his new path of hardness and execution of orders. It couldn't work out—not when he expected her to pull a Houdini half the time. 

The times she proved him wrong was worth it, though, he stated when he saw her return, the red ringlets obscuring a face that was deep in concentration as she scribbled something down on the palm of her hand. It was her right one—she hadn't removed the leather glove of the left one, even though it appeared to be wet and itchy. Clint felt the need to hug her again and never let go. Was it even possible to miss someone so soon? 

"What're you writing?" he asked, surprised at how his voice sounded. Per her usual fashion (at least given the past hour as information) she didn't reply. He was getting annoyed with the habit. Even though she'd never been the most verbal in their partnership (unless she was vehemently threatening to dismember him in the most crude of terms), he found himself missing her voice, the rich sound of its sultriness. 

She looked up at him, apologetic and world-weary before giving his hand a firm squeeze and reluctantly leaning against him, burying her head—has she always been this small and vulnerable?—in his shirt, messing her hair up and wetting them even more. He frowned in confusion before looking down at her hand, his rough fingers beginning to peel open her fingers from the palm area as if forcing a flower to bloom its petals. It seemed wrong but she didn't protest. When he finally removed the last frigid finger, a message in her handwriting was easily read: 

_Voiceless._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another!

_Vienna, Austria_

Voiceless. Adjective. Mute, speechless. Vocally impaired. Clint knew the word, knew its meaning. He just had a hard time coping with the fact that Nat had taken time and considerable emotional effort to write the one word down and conceal it from him with great reluctance. As if she was afraid of what he'd make of it.

He must have looked it. She stared up at him with expectant eyes that, gradually, broke. Just broke. He'd never witnessed an assassin fall apart, but he could watch and pinpoint the mental chaos that had to be unfolding within her rapid mind. She made assessments as he weighed options. In another life, she would have been a great leader: able to make choices fast and stick to them. He mentally winced as he realized she _was_ a leader. A leader to people who didn't deserve her or her leadership.

Absentmindedly, his finger traced the line of her jaw, caressing it mindlessly. It was a bad habit he'd had before she left, and it was made worse by her continuous permission to let him do it. Of course, that had been when they'd actually trusted each other enough to fall asleep next to each other. Half of him—the part S.H.I.E.L.D. had trained, he realized bitterly—expected her to kill him soullessly.

"You… don't have a voice?" he finally asked in what he hoped wasn't mocking disbelief. He couldn't imagine not having a voice. He used his so often—cracking jokes, greeting people, insulting junior agents, ordering food. "Hey, look at me," he said gently, guiding her chin upwards with his index finger.

Nat shook her head. She didn't look sad or particularly dejected. She looked defiant as if she'd been expecting him to use it against her. He felt angry at her for expecting it, but realized he couldn't. He couldn't use her handicap—although she'd probably found a way to work around it, making it _handicapable_ —to excuse her and the way she'd left him as if he'd meant shit to her years ago.

"Tasha, don't think this forgives what you did. Or what you're doing." Foot, meet mouth. "God!" he exclaimed, backing off in an attempt to compose himself. He didn't want to give her in. He truly didn't want to. Loyalty like theirs didn't just go away. " _Organized crime?_ Europe? What happened to wanting to live a normal life, huh?"

Clint kicked a wooden chair in frustration. He was losing control over the situation by the minute. She said nothing, looked at him challengingly. He tried controlling his breathing. He fucking tried. His mind was still trying to accept the fact that she'd gotten an injury (he winced mentally as he thought of the scar, but never with disgust, never) that had left her efficiently mute. Mute wasn't a word he connected to Natasha Romanov. She mouthed something and he had to look twice to get it.

'That was your dream. Never mine.'

"You left S.H.I.E.L.D. so you could go off and join _these people_? Murderers and terrorists?" he asked bluntly, reciting some of the titles of the men he'd been told to watch out for.

She silently exclaimed in disgust and frustration with large hand gestures, and then grabbed the notepad by the kitchen counter. Feverishly, she wrote and it wasn't neat or pretty. It was as if the letters were declaring war against each other in pure contempt. So _were we._

He halted immediately. He'd forgotten this aspect of their rela— _partnership_ , he corrected himself.

_What we had couldn't have been real. Or you wouldn't have left._ She told the truth. She could twist words into obscurity, but she'd always been honest with what she was—even if he'd managed to forget (something he rarely allowed himself to do, but it had happened on occasion). She'd called herself a traitor, a murderer, a child killer, a terrorist, and a whore more times than he'd ever wanted to account for.

"Don't you dare compare us to these immoral bastards! We did _good_. We fought for the _good guys_ , Tasha and then you quit! _You_ broke us up. You ruined something good. And I'm mad, I have the goddamn right to be mad!" he shouted as his temper got the best of him. He never laid a hand on her, but she'd hear about the way he'd suffered, alright. "You left and Fury had me for weeks, inquiring as to how I hadn't seen it coming. _Weeks_. And I was mad, I was _pissed!_ "

He felt his hands starting to shake as the anger was allowed venting. Truth be told, he was happy not to be interrupted until he remembered why. She'd lost her voice like some Ariel in the sea. His voice grew quiet, almost apologetic. "And I was mad. And I _am_ mad. You know why? Because even though you broke us, I still had it in me to forgive you. Because you're Tasha. You're my partner. And even thought you're kicking me ass in Vienna, I'm still worrying about you catching a fucking _cold_."

He was shaking and he was tired—physically, mentally, emotionally. He sat down on the couch, trying to cool down. And slowly, he felt her form sit next to him and tentatively rub her hand over his bicep. It was soothing. It wasn't supposed to be, but it was. He damned himself for his vows, convinced that it would have been easier to maintain celibacy than to resist the protective instinct around her. Others might have feared her—Clint only wanted to shield her. Shield her from all who wanted to harm her, from S.H.I.E.L.D., from her own past and her own mistakes (even the ones she'd made without him), and shield her from _everything_. It had been his job once. It had been easy to shrug off as duty, then. They both knew it had grown far beyond that. 

Clint wasn't going to apologize. She knew better than to expect it. Hell, she'd insisted he stopped his halfhearted _and_ wholehearted apologies within the first six months they worked together. She wasn't polite so he wasn't going to be. He'd forgotten her exact words but remembered the point as vividly as he remembered the bruises of the fight that had accompanied it, as fights so often accompanied Natasha's points. 

He'd forgotten how draining she could be. It wasn't a bad thing, but living or being around Natasha was intense and he hadn't gotten younger in her absence. He managed to turn off that annoying buzz in his head that told him he should get the hell out of here—the part that conjured scenarios based on her victim profile and executions. He managed to repress the questions that threatened to rise to the surface and make her bolt. 

He wasn't stupid enough not to see what this was. He was still attached to her in that fierce way that had terrorized S.H.I.E.L.D. when they had still been partners. And she obviously felt _something_ or she wouldn't have hesitated and pulled back, least of all invite him back here. She might have misread him—he _doubted_ that, but was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt given the past five years and his outburst—but she still saw him for what he'd been and not for what he was. 

"Tasha," he sighed, leaning his head onto her shoulder. His hands had stopped shaking, no more anger pulsing through them. 

He felt her press her lips to his temple and he leaned into the light touch. It didn't mean anything— _except_ it meant _everything_. It didn't mean anything between them romantically but the touch itself was the same kind as his hand before. Touchstones. Harbors. One touch was enough to affect him, be it anger or calmness to flood him. He was glad, treacherously so, to see it had the same affect on her, because as his hand urged her not to stop, his eyes reduced to that of a beggar's, he noticed how she inhaled and her breathing grew unsteady. 

She doubted herself. Clint could see it and hated himself for inspiring such conflict. Once he would have been satisfied, as it meant she faced emotion—especially her feelings towards him instead of ignoring them head-on with outrageous stubbornness—but now he hated it. It would be so much easier if he'd never seen her falter. 

Nat left a trail of light kisses down his temple and jaw, and it didn't feel like pleasure but an unspoken apology. He was afraid to offend her by cutting it off, instead cataloguing how his body relaxed at her touch and presence. When she grazed the stubble of day-old beard, he stopped her, grabbing both of her wrists and rubbing his thumb on the skin above her pulse. He felt it quicken as she tried to realize what he was doing, and then panic became acceptance. She rose to her feet and gently, the fear of rejection so very real in her eyes that it almost made him feel like the bad guy, lead him to one of the closed doors. 

His throat felt dry and he opened his mouth to form some kind of protest, but said nothing when she simply contained whatever desire she'd had (at least he'd hoped it to be, and not some twisted version of interrogation that Red Room had implanted in her mind) and gestured towards the closet. 

'You are wet,' she mouthed and he paid attention to the way her lips moved and imagined how her voice would have sounded. He recalled it easily as it regularly made an appearance in his nightmares and dreams. 

Clint looked down himself and realized she was right. "Damn, still tending me after five years, Tash," he said, smirking. 

She smiled wistfully and turned her back to him, pulling off her likewise soaked clothing. He felt relief flood him when he saw no additional scars on her back, no sporting of half melted flesh. No additional reason to feel guilty. He didn't even take note of the bra or her underwear when she slipped out of the pants, too, and redressed before he could remark uncomfortably or offer his temporary leave from the room. It reassured him and she had to know it did. Maybe she didn't, maybe it was all subconscious by now. Just seeing her alive was a reassurance. 

Even in the darkness and with the knowledge of the scar that adorned her neck, he couldn't help but admire her beauty. It wasn't stunning or statuesque like that of models and modern beauty icons, but it was mysterious as its owner. She knew how to manipulate men—but he liked her and her beauty even better when she didn't, when she was just _Tasha_. Clint knew it made her uncomfortable, as if shredding those second skins of her aliases made her feel too naked, too vulnerable. She was too strong to ever be just vulnerable in his eyes, but he appreciated when she made an effort to be vulnerable, enough so that he could wrap his arms around her and feel that he was needed. 

When she was done redressing—he couldn't determine in what, because it looked like it could be both streetwear and pajamas, but wasn't going to ask—she slid onto the bed, above the covers and made no move to remove her clothes. She curled up in a sleeping position, back to him, and he started at her blankly, unaware of what to do until she, annoyed in what he used to call domestic annoyance, padded the sheet behind her as if trying to instruct him. Unsurely, he removed his pants, which were dripping, and crawled unto the bed, hesitantly spooning her as he felt her melt into the embrace. 

He breathed in the scent of her hair. It smelled of Viennese rain, but somehow, it smelled of his favorite assassin, too. He felt her hips twist as she turned in his arms, pushing the blanket upwards so it managed to cover him, too, the warm fleece rivaling the heat of her own body. She yawned and curled up against him as if she'd been expecting him to be her sleeping buddy for weeks—and if he hadn't been feeling the stress in her body fade, he would have believed it. 

As it was, he simply stared at her in drowsy disbelief before joining her in a restful sleep. _What are we doing, Tasha?_

\- 

_Two weeks later_

\- 

_No._

_No, this can't be happening._

Clint screamed but terror silenced him—a bitter testament to his current situation—and he struggled passionately. His terror had robbed him of his sight and panic struck beneath the volatile reaction. His lungs filled with incredible cold and he couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, couldn't even shout. 

His limbs felt so heavy, as if weighed down with every responsibility he'd ever had—from his earliest memories of being instructed to look out for his brother to the blurry recollection of his last briefing and the mission-of-the-week bad guy. 

The pain of the struggle was replaced by the ache and soreness of sheer helplessness. He couldn't remember why he struggled—why did he? He had a hard time remembering, and the inner image of his brother faded, taken away like his sight. He felt defeat nearing and panic settle. Panic was useless but it had to be better than outright acceptance. 

There was something he was supposed to remember. Someone he was supposed to be staying alive for. He couldn't remember, couldn't even conjure an image. Then it's not someone important, the voices of the past told him condescendingly. _No, they are important_ , his brain supplied. He felt his legs give up. 

_No, this can't be happening. Not when I finally found her._

He gasped and awoke, his lungs startled to breathe in oxygen. 

-

_Somewhere along the Volga River (Tver), Russia_

\- 

"Barton, tell me why the fuck we even bother with you," the (very) sobering voice of his handler—whose name he couldn't remember right now if to save his life but whose voice he was goddamn glad to hear—demanded. He would have grinned—if he had been able to—because he could hear the concern behind the frustration and annoyance of the statement. 

Clint coughed a good half a liter of cold water up from his lungs before he could even think of an answer. His sarcastic mind did it for him. "B-b-bull's e-eye," he clattered through frosty teeth. God, it was cold. Was water even supposed to be _that_ cold in summertime? 

"Idiot." He registered Rosario's rolling eyeballs. Huh. When had he called Rosario? He couldn't remember. Actually, everything but the man's name was a bit blurry. "Then tell me why _I_ bother with you." 

Clint was lying down. He felt the cold creep back into him and stupidly tried to move, but it felt like he'd been run over by a truck. 

"Keep still, Barton, or I'll throw you back into the water. See how you like that." 

Clint coughed once more, more to prove a point than actual discomfort although there was still plenty of that left in his body. Water. Huh. That made sense, the way things made sense to Clint Barton. He looked up at the suit-clad handler S.I.D. had assigned him. "Don't dial down the kind words on my count. Keep it up and I might accept that Valentine's card I know you have lying around for me," he said sarcastically, battling the exhaustion in all of his protesting limbs. They were on a pier by the harbor although it looked like any harbor. 

Rosario picked up on his sarcasm with his own. It was one of the reasons they worked. "And disappoint all your lady friends? Puh-lease. I can do better _sober_." 

Clint glared at his handler with feigned contempt and hurt. He had no lady friends, just as Rosario hadn't. Their constant moving made relationships difficult to maintain, and while Clint had accepted that, he suspected Rosario still had his run of European one-night-stands. He hoped so for his friend's sake, because if all the company Rosario got was from him, he got crap. 

The field agent accepted the hand the handler offered and as he got up, he registered all the soreness of his limbs and almost collapsed into Rosario. "Thanks for the save." 

"Yeah? Remind me next time you pull an asshole move," his S.I.D. handler said, trying to straighten the soaked tie. Clint gave him a lookover; he was as wet as Clint, yet somehow pulling off composure and aloofness. 

Clint tried to recall what had gone wrong (evidently, something had). "What happened?" 

"You ask me? I'd wage your horrible personality spooked them," Alejo Rosario said without missing a beat, shrugging. "We knew there was a possibility that it could happen." 

Clint took in his surroundings, trying to ignore the cold that was actively trying to settle in his bones. He recognized the architecture and skyline. At least enough to tell the landmarks and country. "The _Volga? Really?_ " he spat in disbelief. "They could have at least made sure I was an agent before throwing me _in the Volga_ ," he hissed, offended. 

His handler offered a clap on his shoulder in solidarity. Considering he was as wet as Clint himself, it might have actually meant what it implied. "Let's get your ass out of here." 

Twenty minutes later, they were in a car headed for yet another S.I.D. safe house, wearing clothes that were drier than they were colorful. His handler drove the car without conversation, and secretly, Clint was glad as it allowed him to restore his mind from whatever hallucinogens he'd been exposed to. God, he hated being drugged. 

Rosario, the man in shining standard-issue armor, had dragged his ass from Volga after he'd made a stupid-ass decision that got him knocked out and thrown into the icy water. Alejo was like that. He rarely told Alejo that, but he understood anyway. Handlers didn't take it personal when they were frequently dismissed, ignored or disobeyed. They didn't get mad – they got even. To get even, one had to generally keep one's agent alive, which was harder than it looked and Rosario was doing a helluva job. 

It had been two weeks since he had written his report on the Viennese meeting in the Leonum Tarpeius (he'd memorized the name after the revelation that _she_ 'd joined them). Two weeks since he'd slipped out of a bed in a crappy apartment to "go do his _job_ "—her words, not his. Everything was a bit blurry since that, not only due to the icy water from the Volga River. 

It wasn't the pink cloud of love he was floating on. No, his life had been downright miserable after he'd known that she was out there living a mirror life to his own, traveling through Europe, planning to take him down. Nothing personal, just a job. It was bittersweet. 

He tried not to think of the morning where reality had come lurking back. He tried to remember the evening before it, where he'd been the teddy bear of an international assassin and hadn't minded. He tried not to think of how it had been the most restful of nights he'd endured in a long time. He'd expected it to be filed in the category in his mind that he reserved for gruesome kills. Things not to linger on, he'd long ago labeled it. Except his treacherous brain wasn't a goddamn filing cabinet and half of what went on in there wasn't of his choosing. 

He dreamed. Sometimes it was pleasant dreams, dreams of pretense. Dreams where he held her, dreams where she spoke voicelessly. Ever since Vienna, he hadn't heard her voice in his dreams as if his brain had registered _that_ and accepted it without his consent. Oftentimes it was nightmares. It shouldn't be anything remarkable—an assassin having nightmares was normal in their line of work ( _his_ , he stubbornly corrected)—but it wasn't the faces of his victims that terrified him. It was centric, but not towards him. It was her. She haunted him, devilishly so, and when she didn't, she was the victim of some unknown villain of his mind, held, tortured, crying, restrained. He could never remember his dreams, just the remnant sensation. He didn't know which dreams were scarier. They were both unattainable. 

They had driven for a while when he spoke. 

"Alejo?" he said, a rare use of the handler's first name. 

The man shrugged non-committedly, not having expected the agent to speak—he rarely did after near-death experiences and they had both accepted that. "Huh?" 

"What's the possible medical recovery time for drowning?" 

Rosario tore his eyes off the road briefly to stare the agent down. Clint gave him nothing but sincerity. He tried to conceal the other emotions. He must've looked tired enough, because Rosario replied back in sincerity. "In Sid?" The handler always referred to the agency as if it was an entity of its own. He wasn't wrong. "24 hours. Coupled with the hallucinogens and additional beating, they'd keep you for a week if I brought you in. Why?" he asked suspiciously. 

Clint thought of Vienna and smirked. "Maybe I've got eyes on a girl," he joked, half serious but largely kidding. If Rosario had any idea about the girl he was thinking of, he would never unleash him. 

"Yeah right," Rosario snorted in disbelief as he turned his attention back to the road. "You know I don't pretend to know you, Barton…"

"Thank god, not. S.H.I.E.L.D. sent that warning label with me, didn't they?" Clint joked, knowing fully well how one agency had tired of him and sent him onto the next. 

"Must've gotten lost in all the disciplinary reports I had to read when they assigned me," Rosario murmured, almost managing to sound regretful. 

"Reason why I'm not a handler," Clint said and leaned back into the seat as if his life was all roses and daisies compared to Alejo's. Some days, it was, like today. How many S.I.D. handlers got to pull their very own assets out of a freezing river? Clint grinned. 

Rosario continuously tried to convince him to join the safety of the handlers, claiming it came with benefits. The only 'benefits' Clint saw were the promises of gray hairs and additional frustration with rookie agents, or worse, agents like him that ignored advise and orders with the same mindless fervor. He suspected that, other than believing him competent, Alejo was trying to convert him for his own sake so he wouldn't have to deal with Clint's behavior. The sales pitches were getting less frequent, which told Clint nothing. Alejo Rosario could be as enigmatic and goddamn unreadable as another handler he knew abroad. One who would have known which girl he was thinking of before he'd even thought of her. 

They pulled up some curb and the handler leaned over to open the door. The streets were frequented and appeared to be populated, abuzz with life. Clint looked at Alejo questioningly. He thought they were going to a safe house. 

"Go," the handler urged, annoyance tainting his tone. "Whatever you've got your mind on, it won't be fulfilled or supplied in the infirmary. God no, I don't want you in the infirmary. Go find your _girl_ ," he said, still not looking like he took Clint's word for it. For a moment, Clint stared at his handler in disbelief. "Don't make me explain myself," he growled, and Clint sprung out the door with renewed energy. 

"Don't get yourself killed. And be in Riga in a week!" Rosario reminded him like a fretting mother with a four-year-old. Clint, still taken aback by the handler's ability to read his intentions—he couldn't be blamed for not knowing about Natasha—gaped as he watched the car drive down the street and disappear from his sight. 

\- 

_Vienna, Austria – Sixteen hours later_

\- 

Everything about every target he'd ever tracked told him that this was hopelessly naïve. Yet he found himself standing outside the door to the apartment he'd been to two weeks ago, ready to knock against the hardwood of the door. At first, nothing happened and panic struck him along with a sense of disappointment. He didn't know how to track her, not when he only had one week, less so now. She'd probably ditched the apartment the afternoon of the day he'd left, and she could be anywhere on the planet, actively trying to forget him or plan his demise. 

All of these thoughts halted when the doorknob turned from within. He ceased breathing, too, and he couldn't remember the last time he had been so open to hurt. He chastised himself for it immediately. Only fools hoped when they knew better. 

The apartment's tenant opened the door slowly as if not daring to believe it herself, eyes tentatively searching his for a reason as to why they were both here, hoping. 

He said nothing as he stepped in through the door and hugged Nat, right there for the world to see. He felt her surprise—and gave her credit for it, as he knew her instincts to be something other than allowing someone to hug her so suddenly—and searched her eyes briefly for permission before his lips found hers in a long-awaited kiss. His hands ran over her body in disbelief to what she wore—a cardigan of all things, but he liked it all the same—and he needed no further instruction than the moan he received and the instant cooperation of her body pressing itself against his in compliance and need. 

Clint's mind went blank as his body did the opposite and he poured all of his emotions into the next kiss, stumbling across the threshold and feeling the door slam shut behind him. Her movements grew more participatory and hungry as her hands roamed his body, searching for the contraptions to release him of the new clothes with little regard for their novelty. 

He smirked briefly against her lips before he allowed himself to be guided to the bedroom, pretending not to see the packed suitcase on the table. His hand ran through her hair in worship and he uttered a low moan. Despite the urgency, it felt like they had been caressing their bodies with such passion and fervor for years and not been eluding it—and each other—for years. 

Clint chose to go with her instruction, needing a brief (but altogether desirous) touch to be ignited with a passion he'd forgotten after her departure. Your girl, Alejo had said, as if thinking of some passing attraction. He banished the memory as he banished everything else but her upon entering the bedroom to do things to her he'd dreamed of. 

After all, he'd know the instant she didn't want him anymore—but prayed to whatever gods would listen that it wouldn't happen, because he wanted her with the same fervency of a spoiled brat that had been denied his wish. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?

_Vienna, Austria_

It was a very peculiar sensation that strayed Clint's thoughts the moment he awoke. His mind, having sprung into alert sooner than his body, had taken in the environment and assessed it without his consent as it so often did and made its assessment by the time he could even stop it. When regret filled him, he cursed himself utterly without voice, and could only be thankful that it wasn't entirely due to the shape beside him. 

The Volga hadn't released him from her grip and the repercussions of the near-drowning still affected him despite his will for it not to. As he rolled off the bed, he couldn't even think of the assassin accompanying him in it, just the goddamn _cold_. It felt as if it had settled in his bones, within his flesh and in every muscle and joint. The nightmare had been accurate. He tried to calm his breaths as he rubbed his hands together as if trying to banish the cold that threatened to settle—a cold that was the phantom villain of his nightmares. He tried to shake the feeling and get back into bed, but by now his mind had also awoken and spread its tendons of doubt and reassessment. 

Clint only needed to look around in the dark room to recognize it (which was more than he could say most days). He was in Vienna. On the outskirts, really, but he knew where he was, and he knew the person sleeping next to him. He froze when he realized he wasn't alone, but by then she'd noticed his fuss and was staring at him, green eyes piercing the darkness with unspoken question. His heart sank when he remembered she was without a voice to question his peculiar behavior. He hadn't told her about Volga— _why should he?_ —because they hadn't exactly made conversation a priority. His body still ached from her less-than-tender touch, but he wasn't complaining. They were both people of violent impression, no wonder they were both rough. He'd been surprised to find it tender at the same time, though. 

By the time he'd gotten his breaths under control, she'd risen, wrapped in the sheets like an Egyptian queen. She had made a point out of keeping him from seeing the scar and now didn't even entrust him to lay his eyes there in the cover of the night. "S-sorry," he murmured, trying to shake the feeling of cold water promising him an early demise. 

His body tensed when she put her hand on his forehead, brows furrowing. He noticed the glove at her proximity. She hadn't removed it, even as she'd allowed him to remove all other clothing a few hours ago. Only then did he realize his own nudity and blushed, luckily in the cover of darkness. He smiled sheepishly—or, tried to, but a cough sent him staggering. He attempted an apology, but her fingers grabbed his jaw volatilely and brought his eyes to hers. He knew the look. Oh-oh. 

_What did you **do**_. He didn't need a notepad for the frustration in her eyes, the almost maternal branch of concern she'd associated with caring for him when he was stupid enough to hurt himself in what she'd liked to call foolishly thoughtless mission spontaneity. He had to be exhausting to be around when he did that, because Alejo was starting to get the same look in his eyes. He'd put Tasha through enough stunts as it was. Alejo was in for some shitty bouts of nursing. 

"Turns out the Volga is not a place for skinny-dipping," he joked, brushing her hands off him. She didn't have a right to know, did she? All he could think about was her allegiances to the Leonum Tarpeius, and while he had chosen to (try to) not judge her for it, the agent in him knew better than to share mission intelligence and compromise it. He couldn't blame alcohol or remnants of hallucinogens on last night's events. He didn't regret them. He'd booked the plane ticket with a destination in mind, but hadn't known what to expect until he'd been at her door. 

She frowned, recognition flashing across her face. She opened her mouth to, well, mouth, but he looked away and walked back to the bed. "I don't want to talk about it." _I almost died, and if you were my partner, you would have known._ He shouldn't have blamed her for something she had been unable to prevent, but yet he did. 

Clint saw the jerk move for what it was. Instead of being offended, however, Nat nodded and accepted his words without further prodding—something that sadly reminded him all too well of their newfound distrust. If they had been closer, as they'd once been, she would have demanded an explanation and an admission of foolhardiness to state a point. _Enough trust to bed one another, but not tell the truth_ , Clint thought bitterly as he slipped back unto the bed. 

However he tried, he couldn't fall asleep. He wound up staring hard at the ceiling as if waiting for it all to make sense. It felt surreal and comforting to have her back, but also unsettling because he was too damn worldly not to see the ever-increasing list of reasons he should stop this—whatever it was—while they were ahead. Fraternization with the enemy had always been frowned upon, however vague the label enemy was in Clint's mind. It wasn't just frowned upon, he knew that, but telling S.I.D.—or worse, being discovered by S.I.D.—could have terrible and possibly fatal consequence. 

A sane man would have cursed the day he met Natasha Romanov. Clint, having tenured the title as field agent for well past a decade now, knew better than to consider himself sane. He wouldn't have been shipped off to S.I.D. if he'd even been likably insane. No, he went all the way. One couldn't function as swiftly and adeptly as an assassin—like Nat, he'd learnt to be honest, least of all to himself, about what he was and what function he carried out—and proclaim sanity. No-uh. Things rarely went the way the rulebook described it. He only had to look left to see exhibit A (the alphabet didn't have enough letters to why _this_ was doomed before it had even started). 

Yet he found himself reluctant to pull back. He was sane enough to realize what was happening. He was being selfish for the both of them. He wanted to revive something that could never be reenacted. First of all, she was the enemy— _his enemy_ —by association and probably, as much as he didn't want to consider it, by act. She'd always been indifferent towards laws, only vaguely trying to follow protocol. He'd never understood how such rebelliousness had attracted the _positive_ attention of Fury for black ops fieldwork. In the end, they'd been like peas in a pie, scarily so. They might have been able to read each other mission-wise and strategically, Clint mused, but nobody knew her like he did. 

He was falling _hard_. To be fair, so was she. Or at least he hoped that. Even that felt selfish. They were bound to be discovered eventually. Inevitably. He liked the odds better at eventually. Still, the odds were good—as good as one could be, opposing S.I.D. and its motherfucker of a sister agency, S.H.I.E.L.D.—they were trained to be the very best, the elite of S.H.I.E.L.D. albeit not trained solely by S.H.I.E.L.D. Look where they'd ended up, his brain pointed out wistfully, yet felt somehow justified as his finger traced the hem of the pillow. 

Clint felt as if he needed to explain himself. And, given his lack of a mental filter, he was unsurprised when he started speaking, explaining himself and thus breaking the awkward silence that had settled between them. "My handler pulled me out of the Volga in… Tver, I think. I made a stupid move. Got myself beat up by a bunch of guys that were a whole lot less prettier than you are." 

At first, he didn't know if the joking had helped melt her icy, unforgiving heart (she was always furious when he made her worry—furious at him _and_ herself), but then he felt the tussle of sheets and realized, with relief, that she was moving closer, expressing her acceptance of the shitty apology the only way she could in the darkness. 

Clint felt as if his odds had just improved remarkably. He knew he shouldn't be able to make her worry like this, because he knew he had. She knew him better than that. He could have easily lied but chose not to. It was dangerous and foreboding. 

He felt her hand move tenderly—an act not often experienced at the hand of an assassin as notoriously numb as the Black Widow—across a bruise that she must've spotted during their lovemaking. It was a weird term, he decided, but he couldn't just say they had sex. It sounded so brash and like it didn't mean anything. It did, but he wasn't sure love was involved in the process. He hadn't thought she'd noticed and thought himself a fool for the notion. Of course she'd noticed. And he wanted to believe it was due to her attentive mind and not a search for possible weaknesses. 

He winced but didn't remove her hand from the bruise. He recalled the brute who'd been starring as his bully during the 'interrogation'. If Alejo had seen it, he wouldn't have let him run off. Well, at least not immediately, Clint mused, thinking of how truly infuriating he could get when cooped up in recovery too long. Rosario would have kicked him out after an hour, figuring the headache he was getting due to Barton would overrule the nuisance it'd be to track him down when he, inevitably, got himself into trouble again. 

Rosario would be right, of course. But did Natasha have such privilege, and was it even a privilege to worry for someone as goddamn insane as he was at this point? _You've ruined me for others, Tasha_ , his mind concluded as he dozed off into sleep. 

\- 

Dawn came as one of the few leftover things Natasha could still count on. Well, she thought wryly, she could still count on Clint being devoted, but since she had no idea how deep his devotion was rooted, she didn't count it for its potential worth. One should only count on the things one was sure of, and Clint had always been a gray zone of unpredictability and irrationality. 

It had been nice—nice (and so much more, if she had to be honest, but she rarely was)—but _wrong_ to allow herself to drown in the illusions of their past partnership, even if it had been only for a few hours and nobody had walked away dead. Perhaps an inadequate analogy, but it was all she could think of. However, death was not the only finite, unpreventable thing after last night's events. 

Like an awkward teenage couple the morning after a one-night-stand (or adults for that matter, but surely not spies), they slipped out of bed and proceeded to avoid each other with various routines that irked her with how easy she melted into it. Their shower and bathroom routines were still perfectly timed, something that bothered her. As she had nothing edible in her fridge, however, the bliss of the avoidance soon came to a halt as both their stomachs demanded food with sullen grumbles. While a need easily ignored, it had always been hard to shake Clint's worry and incessant need to care for her and mother her. 

She found it annoying that it didn't truly irritate her. Still, she appreciated his acuity when it came to reading her and found that he, still, was a far better interpreter than half the men she usually dealt with. She'd been startled to compare him to the men she worked with, ashamed even, but quickly pushed the thought away. 

She gestured for him to dress—although her eyes lingered in shallow appreciation—as she decided he'd aged well. Nobody aged graciously or gracefully, but the years had been kind to Clint, even if the missions hadn't. His spark was gone, as much as he tried to relight it with comments and mischief. She couldn't decide if it was for the better or just tragic. 

"Natasha, we need to talk," he said softly but firmly and she could have roared in laughter. _Talk?_ It was too late for that. He must have seen it on her face—she damned herself for not concealing the bitterness better—because he scowled and looked down apologetically. "That's not what I meant." 

She forgave him for the momentary slip, knowing that if she hadn't had the irrational sensation to trust him, the mistake would have cost him gravely. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want to put a term to what they were doing although there were plenty of them—treason, mistake, attraction, poor judgment, hell, trusting someone they obviously shouldn't (neither of them had track records with that ending well)—and she didn't want to see his devotion, or something deeper than that, less tangible, in his eyes. Most of all, she didn't want to abandon him again, and she knew that if he continued this heedlessly, she'd have to, for his sake. 

If she wasn't an asset, she was a potential enemy to S.H.I.E.L.D.; she knew that better than anyone. Having bailed on them once, they'd undoubtedly think an enemy of her, and her current allegiances would do nothing to convince them otherwise. If they found out what she'd been hiding from them, she'd be lucky to be killed on sight and not contained indefinitely in one of their facilities, never to see the face of anyone she knew again. Not even Clint. Hell, if Clint continued sending her these looks, he'd be sharing a cell with her. 

She respected Clint, _cared for Clint_ , too much to let that happen. She wouldn't let him face charges of treason because of her. If she was caught, she could still think of ways to convince them she'd manipulated him into bedding her. It'd break his heart, and it'd be untrue, and she hoped she wouldn't have to resort to it, but it was nevertheless an option. She wasn't planning on getting caught. Too much depended on her to allow herself to get caught. The Black Widow hadn't gotten caught, and whoever she was now—Lioness, Nikolaevna, it didn't matter as much as anonymity did—wanted to adopt that trait into her legacy. 

However, the Black Widow and Nikolaevna were two very different people. The Black Widow hadn't shown her face, or blade for that matter, in years, dying as Nikolaevna was born in the shade of her former self and a man who lacked no conviction by the name of Desta, if that was even his name. They had a lot in common, but the world didn't whisper in the corners of Nikolaevna's sins and tragedies. No, Natasha was happy to be a nobody in the sense that few knew her name. The Black Widow had seen too much to function properly in a world of today and she'd been mostly happy to watch the skintight suit burn. The grave of the Widow fed hope to the person she was behind the horrors. It was easier to live up to the reputation of a mute mercenary whose loyalties weren't questioned. Not until she'd seen the face of an old partner—who was she kidding, the only partner that had mattered—and faced all those doubts and questions that she'd thought buried with the Widow. 

Frankly, the ease at which she trusted Clint scared her, frightened everything she'd ever learnt or known about treachery. The man she'd fallen into bed with—overruled by temporary but overwhelming passion—was not the man she'd abandoned, but the partner who still trusted her and would be willing, she suspected, to drag her ass out of the fire. The kind of unwavering trust should be enough to upset anyone who'd ever performed the job they did, regardless of what side they were on. 

He would have done well to simply forget about her and, if feeling particularly forgiving (although she saw no reason to be after having ditched him so carelessly), left her out of his official report. She felt terribly glad that he hadn't and equally puzzled with her own extended stay in Vienna. Logically, staying had been foolish. She had a job to do and a list to compile, but unreasonably, she'd remained in the hopes that he'd return. She hadn't realized it, of course, not until he'd showed up and relief had flooded her—he hadn't, even out of ignorance, made a fool of her. However, the dark shadow of reality, regulations, protocols and, god forbid, _laws_ lingered like a pest, even in the cover of night. 

They still had enough sense to know what they were doing was wrong. It could, very well, destroy both of their careers and lives. Nobody should be allowed to be this catastrophically selfish. Nobody should hold that power, least of all over her. 

And yet she looked at the man and couldn't muster the anger to scare him off. In any event, it'd probably just convince him all the more to stay. Clint was like that—without sense of survival when equipped, incredibly so, with a sense of _her_. It was infuriating—hell, there'd been times at S.H.I.E.L.D. when she'd almost requested permission to shoot him with just cause—it was _maddening_. It was, simply put, Clint. And the reason it irritated her was that the sensation had rubbed off in the course of their partnership (a word that was always so much safer than the alternatives she often refused to consider, much to his chagrin) and made her just as relentlessly devoted. She might not have been willing to give her heart to Clint five years ago, but she had been willing to hand him her gun and weapons and sleep naked—in the sense of armor, anyway—next to him. Which was almost as hard and unfeasible. The prospect of having that back tempted her. 

They went to a café that Natasha had been guested before, enough so that the staff—a cook with a friendly smile, big whiskers, and bright eyes that were subtler than his humor, and his nephew who worked as a waiter, presumably during the summer to earn cash for some prize at the local car dealership—knew of her disability, and luckily, her order. Clint spotted her smiles to the two as they sat down in a booth overlooking the small plaza. He frowned as the nephew eagerly nodded and soon made his way to them. She dined and lunched her too often in the past week, finding Alfredo's company, even if Elias were to be found, worse than anything she'd ever encounter in the cozy café. 

"What can I do for you?" the cook's nephew asked in German although his pronunciation betrayed him to be Turkish, coupled with his looks. He sent a knowing glance in Natasha's direction. "The usual?" 

She nodded as Clint frowned. She knew it to be unwise to befriend locals, especially to make routines that could be discovered by unfriendlies, but she'd been too lonely to listen to the voice of wisdom in her head, or simply too careless. As the nephew looked at him awaitingly, Clint stuttered the first thing he skimmed in the menu's breakfast section in plain German. His American accent was untraceable, and this time it was her that looked impressed. 

"What?" he said upon seeing her expression, smirking. "I brush up. It's not that uncommon." 

Of course it wasn't uncommon. Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.—of _any_ agency—had to keep sharp and keep expanding their skillsets. Before she went mute, she had been capable of comprehending more than two dozen languages, fluent in at least a third of them. The education had been forced upon her, but she'd always been the more linguistically skilled of the two. _Rubbish_ , the voice in her head told her, _no use dwelling at the past. You're mute and useless and that's it_. It was true, though. No matter how worse Clint's linguistic training got (she doubted it), it'd always be better than the linguistic capability of a mute. Sure, she could eavesdrop, and oftentimes it was a gift, but it was a burden when it came to unloading her secrets, as she had little patience for typing everything she knew on a topic down. She was still a spy, but only half the spy she had once been, perhaps only a third. 

She saw that the waiter had left his pen with them and grabbed for a napkin in the holder. For once, Clint was silent while she scribbled down her message. Sighing, she pushed it towards him, across the table. 

_How long_. A question mark was unnecessary. He had come back, hoping to see her, and even though they both knew it shouldn't have happened—if another pair of partners had met five years after the stunt she'd pulled, they wouldn't have run back to each other like they'd done—they had, remarkably so, known (or at least hoped, irrationally so) that the other would be there, feeling the same need. He'd been to Russia after he'd left Vienna— _god_ , she'd told him to go do his job, not get himself _killed_ , although she supposed she owed his handler a thank-you (like _that_ would ever happen)—and she had enough of an imagination to see how that had gone. 

"A week." 

It wasn't long. Yet, as today had proved, it seemed like half a lifetime. A week that, if ever found out by S.H.I.E.L.D. or Desta, could be the end of them. Yet it was alluring, tempting to play pretend as they had done last night and the night two weeks ago. Rapidly, she scribbled a new message. This time he read it aloud as if either agreeing or in disbelief. 

" _We shouldn't do this_. I know, Tasha. Trust me, _I know_." He sounded as desperate as she felt, as if he knew all these horrible truths and still wanted to attempt the impossible. He composed himself and stared at her with that piercing, helpless look that had gotten people killed. She had to search his eyes for the sincerity, unsure of how to read him five years after having been fluent. 

With shaking fingers, she finally wrote something on the corner of the napkin. _But you want to_. She made no question mark or period. It could have been both a statement, but also a desperate question. If he say no, it'd hurt her, but not as much as a yes inevitably would. She cursed the day she'd started to care about Clint Barton, regardless of whose side he was on. She cursed the day _he_ 'd started to care about her, regardless of what side she was on. 

Natasha was no fool. Sooner or later, if they were to continue this dangerous dalliance, the question would arise. She would decline, more reasons unmentioned than admitted (and he'd be frustrated, that he would). He wouldn't understand why, or worse, he _would_. She didn't know which would be worse and hoped, foolishly, never to see the outcome. 

"Yeah." The look in his eyes was unbearable. She didn't want that much attention or emotion aimed at her. It wasn't right when she'd ended so many people in what seemed like a lifetime ago for doing the exact same. 

_It isn't right_ , she wrote, trying to control the tremor of her hand. She looked away to wipe away tears. When she looked up, she felt treacherous for smiling and feeling the happiness at seeing him not in flight. If he'd been normal or, god forbid, _sane_ , he'd be running out the door. 

And when he spoke, she could see the lie, the beautiful lie, the lie he perhaps hadn't even realized, beneath the determination and the devotion. "I don't care." 

Because he would, inevitably so, care that it wasn't right. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of fluff or, well, the closest thing I come to writing fluff. It's not usually my forte because too much angst tends to seep through, but I do my best to work on it.

_Vienna, Austria_

He watched her eat in silence, his shadow of her spider self, committing the imagery almost creepily to memory. She had relented his intense scrutiny. Unlike a fair share of women, she didn't blush under attention. When on a mission, she'd basked in it, but really, she grew angry. Not upset, not infuriated, not cranky; just aggressively annoyed, especially if there was something better to do. Oftentimes, there had been, like scopes to readjust or guns to disassemble and clean, but it annoyed the hell out of her—still did, he could see, in the corner of her eyes as much as she tried to hide it—and of course, Clint Barton had taken it upon himself to _master it_. She _snapped_. The funniest part of it had been explaining the Widow's bouts of rages to handlers and senior agents. Of course, _they_ had never found themselves on _that_ end of Barton's intense attention, the ambition usually reserved for targets, so what would they know, having been deprived of the honor? Then again, few people had as admirable a partner as he had.

Surprisingly so, Natasha had accepted his fierce statement as the truth and hadn't (yet) expressed any misgivings or even grazed the topic for revision. He had suspected, like always, a pouch of resistance but had, so far, met none if you didn't count half a dozen bruises in inexplicable places, two weeks of heartbreak and a near-drowning in the coldest Russian body of water Clint would ever allow himself to be thrown in, regardless of the need to "maintain cover". He _really_ hoped Alejo shared the same belief. He remembered the Hispanic's look of incredulous annoyance and wondered if it'd be justified if Alejo ever got to know Natasha Romanov. Clint decided he really didn't need to know. While Rosario held his own against Clint's stupor of recklessness, sarcasm and insanity, he'd be helpless against Nat's very aura and constant threats of bodily harm. No, one should not forget that however much S.I.D. might be S.H.I.E.L.D., agent and handler Alejandro Rosario was no Phil Coulson.

For the first time in a long while, Clint allowed himself to think of the people he hadn't considered friends in years, but who'd once been the closest allies a man could ever dream to have. Yet Clint wasn't a political man or a man of power who needed someone who'd avenge him or be remarkable allies. No, in spite of everything he might have done, Clint was a simple man who didn't ask for much, rarely of his friends. What had once been a close-knit—albeit dysfunctional and filled with more jackasses than not, Clint being one of them—group had gradually been destroyed by the Widow's departure as Clint had refused to take a new partner—"mentor and shape" might have been the exact description, but Clint hadn't wanted to shape and mold a partner, he'd had a partner, a damn good one, in fact, who was competent on her own and goddamn irreplaceable—leaving him exposed during their battles. Without Tasha, he hadn't been interested in the sappy superhero crap. In the end, they'd all been grateful—although none had actually had the indecency to say it aloud—when he was reassigned to solo black ops, even if more members disagreed on the existence and use of such with his expertise.

Clint would have expected different of and from them but he had taken his leave as gracefully as someone _that_ disinterested and repugnant had been capable of. Fury had sent his ass off to intensive re-disciplining, and a wayward and slightly more well-mannered archer had been how that had gone. In truth, Clint had just learnt when to keep his fucking mouth shut when his comments weren't appreciated. Half the time, he did it anyway—what did Fury care, he was a _sniper_ , if that was what it took to maintain sanity and that incredible aim, he'd be able to live it down.

Clint Barton didn't play nice, and S.H.I.E.L.D. had been fools to mistake him for having done such with the Black Widow, Agent Natasha Romanov (oftentimes misspelled by junior field agents as Romanoff), revered by junior agents and senior agents alike. They hadn't played _nice_. They hadn't played _anything_. They had, for a change, gotten to be _themselves_ without bothering or offending anyone. It had lead to a stormy partnership that most (but not all) had been too afraid to gossip about at the water cooler.

Having been stripped of that once, Clint wasn't about to lose it twice. Perhaps it was out of pity—although he suspected it wasn't—that she allowed him this close, but it was more likely that she was biding her time to make him reconsider what he was saying yes to. In her haste to do that, she hadn't realized that he was saying yes because he got a chance to. He was actually permitted the choice— _by her_ —to have a say in their relationship. (Not that he wouldn't have voiced it anyway, but he'd never been the easiest person to run from). Previously, she'd halted the development at every turn and stop. Now, she seemed to (with difficulty) be able to embrace the idea.

Clint recognized that as progress when he thought of the control freak Natasha really was. She might be as spontaneous as a child, but it was really calculated decisions made in an instant based on years and years of harsh strategic training. However, he didn't want her to feel cornered or forced, and least of all like she'd lost more control than she evidently had when she'd lost her voice. Although she didn't seem bothered by it, he'd caught her opening her mouth for the slightest of seconds to dish out some vice comment but to retreat it before its birth, possibly arguing it wasn't important enough to gesture or mouth. It saddened him, because their rapid verbal sparring and banter had always been the most steadfast pillar of their partnership, and without it, awkward silences were not filled with sarcastic remarks or crude jokes, or even threats of bodily harm.

When your advances could be easily ignored, why even go to war?

However, Clint had held her as she slept, not likening her to a fragile doll or a princess, but the strong woman she was, of muscle and heart and mind, honored to even bear witness (although he knew that he was as good as dead if he were ever to share this knowledge). He wanted to catch those lost words and vile comments as much as he wanted to show her that she wasn't alone.

Natasha was still deep in thought and analysis by the time they retraced the steps of the narrow staircase to her apartment. Somehow, feet felt heavier as they approached the place that had been so hopeful hours ago and now seemed so sullen. Had he been wrong to declare his willingness go see where this went? She had been at least that selfish when she'd left him. He could take a hint, but he knew she hadn't been wanting to leave last night, and not because he was just there, but because _he_ was just there, regardless of all the reasons he shouldn't be.

Suffice to say, "shouldn't" had suffered a lot lately as well as its brother, "should". Clint didn't know how to feel about that—he'd had this notion of right and wrong in his head, and now everything he'd ever thought he'd known was so very gray—but stuck to what he knew for certain (almost): that he trusted his partner. She'd given him no reason not to, although she'd provided him with excellent options of shouldn't's. It had never been easy getting Tasha out of his head. For a while, his life had revolved around her professionally and that kind of fervid obsession didn't pass. In her case, it probably never had, although different adjectives had been used to describe the nature of their relation. They hadn't liked each other very much in the beginning. It hadn't been some fairytale where they'd instantly realized their similarities and discovered how well they complemented each other. No, it had been a hardship of learning to trust each other, often demanded by desperate handlers with red faces of sheer frustration.

The result had been remarkable, though, and it was now ironic that it came rushing—the trust, the partnership, the loyalty—back, never to serve S.H.I.E.L.D., or _them_ for that matter, well. It was hard to lose what had once been as instinctual as waking after sleep, or, in their case, as loading a gun. It was hard to overrule what had been so fiercely fostered and nursed as their partnership. S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't demanded them to work as an extension of one another, just that they worked together and that they worked together smoothly and successfully, but it had been like a well-oiled machine, and so the rest had come naturally. It did, now.

When she locked them in, he was once again brought face to face with the packed suitcase. She'd obviously been planning to leave yet he had intercepted. Was his visit merely inconvenient? He didn't want to know the answer, yet as his hand strayed her lower back, he felt like an intruder. He ignored how she leaned into the touch, trusting him, as the bitterness of it all dawned on him.

"Are you going somewhere?" he asked hesitantly when she resumed packing, collecting loose items around the apartment—on the kitchen counter, by the coffee table, all hastily thrown into a backpack.

She looked up, grimacing. ‘It isn't right,’ she spat, mouthing it in mantra as if convincing herself it wasn't worth the heartache. He stepped closer, halting her rash movements. His arms wrapped themselves instinctually around hers in a soft, restriction-free embrace, meant to calm and soothe, which it, alas, did. He felt her sag against him.

"Who says so?" he asked her softly after having hugged her for a minute. She looked at him, puzzled, for a moment before she realized he was replying to her murmurs.

Natasha looked at him with incredulousness. The answer was easy—everyone. S.H.I.E.L.D., Red Room, whoever she worked for if they were to find out, only to mention a few. "What I mean is," Clint said, breathing, unable to believe what he was about to propose, "only if they find out."

He tucked a wayward strand of red hair behind her ear, meaning it as a caress. 'No. I can't let you do that.'

Anger, in infancy, grew in him at how little faith she had in their ability to keep it a secret. "You're willing to give up on us before we've even given it a shot?"

Heedless, she threw the backpack from her and jerked a notepad from its pocket. Less than calm, Clint grabbed the pen from the desk beside him and offered her it sourly. He was still longing to hear her reply.

_This is treason, Clint. You'd be stuck on probation for years if SHIELD discovers this._ Yet there was a desperation in those words. _It is pointless. You will be gone next week, off to some mission in Cape Cod, Rhonda, or Rio._

"I won't," replied, to every of those and none of those statements in particular. "Do you think I'm gonna leave you when I've just found you? Not gonna happen," he persisted. He didn't mention how it was bloody unlikely that he'd be sent on a mission outside Europe, because S.I.D. didn't operate outside Europe.

'Idiot,' she mouthed and he could practically hear the venom. He nodded and saw something that resembled gratitude in her eyes, behind the initial exasperation.

\- 

_Dresden, Germany_

\- 

That was all the resistance he got the next three days. He kept his promise—he didn't leave her—and she kept hers. It was treacherous how easily they found themselves falling into the roles of someone they weren't (perhaps because it was easier than being themselves, given the situation). They boarded a train to Germany like some foolish naïve couple, knowing better than to take the brief vacation from themselves for granted. Clint occasionally searched for Alejandro in the crowds they swam in, but never found him, and hoped that maybe it was as easy as they hoped it to be.

Lying required commitment. The number one reason for getting caught was being unable to commit fully to the lie or forgetting the web of lies that had been spun. Aside from commitment, lying, not only bluffing but truly lying, the art form of thieves and the cunning, required conviction. Most people looked for truth in the eyes of the suspected liar. The eyes were the most common 'tell'. However, the tone of voice, the angle of the chin and the micro-expressions were all just as important. The voice could reveal both degree of commitment and conviction. Without it, it was hard to convince anyone of anything.

It should have astounded and unsettled Clint how easily Natasha lied to the policeman in the patrol car. He'd never realized how much a language not having a language was, and so indulged himself with watching Natasha as she communicated with gestures and subtle movements. He found himself relearning to read her, adjusting to her expressiveness.

Natasha made lying a skill—a skill she mastered better than honesty, which was sad, really. He now understood why she'd forced herself to be more expressive (if would never have happened on its own). It was how she communicated and it required an almost intimate knowledge of her movements to decipher. He wondered if he was even qualified—but, if not him, who then? The last five years, he'd been learning to be on his own, unlearning the ways of a partner he'd told himself he didn't care for. How wrong he'd been.

They startled and chased pigeons across the squares, buying sweets from vendors and eating lunch in abandoned city sections overlooking an unbeautiful city, spending their afternoons stealing from tourists with fat wallets and making a game of returning the wallet to its right owner without detection. In the evenings, he'd pester her until she gave in and went out with him. The third day of their counterfeit paradise, he gaped when he saw her in a skirt—dresses often had necklines she didn't want—chastising himself for forgetting how beautiful she was and that she wasn't just riffraff. He took her out for Italian that evening and looked ever the bit of a lowly guy taking his girl out just to see her smile.

Clint got to see that smile as they became further entranced in the illusion of safety and possibility. There were those horrible, terrible moments of realization when he woke up in the mornings and she'd still be asleep where he'd grab his phone from the bedside table and shuffle through emails, more than relieved when he saw none from Alejo Rosario. He didn't want to show his doubts and fears to highlight hers, and found himself even more determined to make the best of their week.

There were eternal reminders—not always of who they were, when one of them would flinch and scan a crowd without reason, but of why it would never work out. Obstacles, Clint called them in his mind. Tasha's scar was one of them. He'd been naïve to think her neck had been the only one. It seemed that she, like he, had had trouble readapting to being partnerless. Without backup, things that had seemed like child's play were risky and bordered on suicidal. Amazing how one person meant so much. Natasha had relearnt that lesson the hard way, he'd gathered.

It had been after one of their more successful dates. They had gone to a restaurant and climbed the spindly fire escape of an abandoned building. The moon had shone through the window of the shabby hotel room they had rented. She'd thought him gone to bed or shower or whatever, because tension had spiked immediately when she'd heard him step through the threshold. His yawn had been stifled by the vision before him.

The glove had been removed, abandoned on the table's surface. Clint had grown to loathe that glove (and everything it represented), but found himself puzzled at its unexplained absence. He'd come to accept its seemingly eternal resting place on her left hand. He knew its twin, but hadn't seen the right-hand glove since the night they'd sparred, discarded somewhere. He'd been wise enough to realize that something was amiss with her extreme fleshly attachment to the item of clothing, but distracted, he hadn't approached her with his suspicions or observations. It had taken her days to wear shirts that even remotely showed off her neck scar, so he'd figured that it'd all come, given time.

The glove reached her mid-forearm, an inch above the wrist, really, and was dark leather, worn soft with usage. It wasn't why Clint _stared_ , though. Beside the glove, placed carefully he had no doubt, laid two fingers. Not of flesh, no, but of plastic, presumably, and a material that adopted the seemliness and appearance of human skin. The finger prostheses were those of the thumb and index finger of the left hand. Fingers that had touched his skin without detection, he realized and felt queasy. Delicate, dexterous, even, with what appeared to be bendable digits, but not a convincing replica of the real deal.

Natasha obviously hadn't meant to be discovered, because although she didn't spring from the chair on which she was seated, he watched the panic before it was drowned by the emotionless control she'd possessed years before meeting him. He watched her repress her doubts, eat them up before they could become her undoing. His eyes landed on the prosthesis once again, assembled with a plate on which the two fingers were attached, presumably to be attached to the hand. Clint was no expert, but if a prosthesis was needed, something had to have been missing. His eyes sprung to her left hand, fisted in tension and cloaked by the dark shadow of its owner.

"Tasha? What's this?" he asked, and made sure to sound as if it was a question and not the inquiry his body language made it. Why was he always finding these things out by chance and not by confidence? He hated having caught her off guard and yet was glad he had, when clearly, she hadn't been meaning to tell him in the near future.

A hand came forth, reluctant in its journey towards the light. 'Hand' being the only term Clint could assign it. It wasn't filled with savage scars like her neck. The pinky and its neighbor had healed from injury, slender and skin possibly soft to the touch. The middle finger had suffered a harsher treatment, but aside from a slight burn scar on the side, it remained purposeful—he'd seen it balled in a fist as she'd shielded it. The thumb and index fingers had been removed—by fire, injury, or surgery, Clint couldn't tell, although if he'd have to stick to one, it'd be surgery. It seemed a clean cut from amputation. The skin had healed gauntly but healthily from where the bone had been cut.

He took the hand, fragile as it seemed, lighter than it'd ought to be, into his for examination, inhaling sharply. _It's her left hand_ , his mind registered, _her shooting arm_. Well, not exactly, as Natasha was (had been) ambidextrous, but when she fired one-handedly, it was the left, _had been_ the left. She preferred the left. It wasn't easy to tell, but having had one of her guns pressed repeatedly to his delicate parts, he'd noticed. She twitched with the left one as well, or had, back at S.H.I.E.L.D. His mind reviewed the last couple of weeks and tried to recall which hand had been her dominant one. He couldn't tell.

It hadn't seemed relevant. He cursed himself for not having known—not having realized. Here he came with all his declarations of knowing her, and he hadn't noticed something as obvious as the absence of fingers, replaced by a cheap copy of the real deal. Could she even still shoot, he wondered?

Clint cradled the hand carefully as if it was made from glass. His eyes only moved from hers when he inspected the remaining fingers—fingers his own had twined during their night of passion (he'd held her down, but so had she—and he'd _never_ realized). They were delicate; an eternal reminder of what she'd lost, but he couldn't forget—mustn't forget—that these soft hands were the hands of a killer. Of an assassin who rivaled, if not outshone him, with the length of her kill list. It ha never been a competition between the two, not _that_.

His thumb brushed her digits in caress. His touch was light, lighter than a feather, he hoped, as his lips strayed the row of knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers. She looked so breakable in that moment, but a fire of anger roared behind the green sea of vulnerability, warning him of her caution and temper. He saw only because she allowed him to see, her walls stretched like a rubber band, ready to come right back if he crossed the line. Slowly, softly, he kissed each knuckle. When he was done, he led it to rest against his sternum, drawing her in closer. He could hear her hitched breath, feel the tension in her muscle as they stood as one shadow. Natasha leaned her forehead against his chest. She looked so tiny.

Finally, he spoke. It felt sappy, but she needed to hear it (if not to call him out on it), _he_ needed to hear it. "You're beautiful, Tash. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise," he murmured into the wispy softness of her hair.

That night, he made sure to hold her scarred hand in his as he lulled off to sleep.

\- 

It was the fifth day of their German adventure that all hell broke loose (not really, but Clint had always been one for dramatics, and it described his state of mind afterwards pretty well). They'd chased the pigeons like two toddlers and jogged the park. Yes, Clint realized how domestic it sounded. Was he about to complain? No.

He was showering, cleansing himself of the dirt and sweat that had gathered during their run, most of it not from exertion but from the harsh pre-noon sun. They'd stayed in bed this morning, and Clint hadn't minded, not until he'd had to exercise in the nightmarishly feverish streets. He'd raced Natasha to the hotel's reception and had lost the right to the first shower. _That_ he hadn't minded as much, as he'd gotten to see her undress. She'd screwed up her face in abhorrence and asked how anyone could ever find someone so filthy and sweaty attractive. Considering they had worked in questionably sanitary environments more often than not, Clint had simply smiled sheepishly. He'd have found her attractive in a cotton shift dress.

He toweled himself in one of the big, white hotel towels. He hadn't brought anything himself, having been offered little when Alejo had dumped him in a town whose name Clint's Russian wasn't fluent enough to pronounce. Garments were quickly purchased, though, and he'd submerged his phone into a bowl of rice to save its sorry ass. Nat hadn't known to bring towels for him. The damp towel on the hanger told him she hadn't even brought ones for herself. As he shaved, he heard a knock on the door and turned off the tap. "Yeah?" he shouted.

He turned, obviously, but almost forgot to, facing her so he could read her lips. He had to admit, he hadn't lip-read in a while, but he'd insisted that she allowed him to get better at it. It was better to see than her hastily written notes. Plus, he could read the emotion on her face while she was saying it, and that was a whole hell lot of better.

'Going,' she simply mouthed and he must've frowned in confusion; they didn't have plans other than browsing the television for laughable German soap operas they could diss.

"Where?" Clint asked. He was half-naked, covered only in a towel. He could get ready in less than a minute, though. The look on her face told him she wasn't expecting him to.

'Just picking something up,' she said, hasted, forcibly casual. She tapped index and middle finger against the door, head the only thing that showed. Something was amiss, but the mess in the background confirmed that she hadn't packed and was sneaking out, making a quick escape. He supposed he was just paranoid.

"Okay," Clint consented reluctantly, confused as to what required such haste all of a sudden, but by then she'd blown him a kiss and gone off. He could hear the door slamming. Maybe she needed lady products, he thought awkwardly, then couldn't help but check the toiletries bag by the cabinet. No, they were in there plentifully, he concluded with a slight blush.

He finished his shaving and redressed, still pondering what had required her immediate attention. His hair had almost dried by the time he discovered the blinking dot on the voicemail. He'd seen many blinking colors in his life, most having been bright, almost offending neon signs, some countdowns to bomb explosions, but he recognized the universal voicemail gesture. _You've got mail_ , he thought. He pressed down the button.

" _Confirm deletion of message_ ," the electronic voice said. Clint knitted his brows in confusion. Why would you delete a message—they deleted themselves naturally after you'd listened to them after a few days.

He pressed 'no'. It was easy to operate the voicemail system. Clint had dealt with more complicated bombs with no EOD experts in the vicinity. Suffice to say, he was still here, but he wasn't the tech wiz Natasha had proven to be. " _Replay old messages?_ "

He felt like a spy, but then remembered he was one. It was more like peeking, anyway. Maybe she hadn't even listened to it, and it was most likely to be a telemarketer or the clerk from the reception. 'Yes'. Eternity passed before the voice replayed the recording.

" _You have 1 new message. Beep. 'Nikolaevna',_ " a dark voice, obscured by some accent Clint couldn't place, said. No telemarketer would have a voice like that, as crime poured on silk. "' _Desta speaking. You know why I call. I know you're in Dresden.'_ " Then it turned softer, almost fatherly. Clint was no fool to believe it. " _'I need you, child, to fix something'._ "

The owner of the voice—Desta—grew annoyed, sighing with exasperation and frustration—not aimed at the recipient, but at those he spoke of. Clint wondered who this Desta person was. He didn't need to wait long. " _'Sylvio botched the abduction. Take over. Deal with it. Finish him off when you're done. Anybody protests, kill them. Get them in line, Nikolaevna. Oh, and I need that list of candidates. I'll see you in Prague.' Beep. You have no new messages,_ " it finished.

Clint stood, frozen, stuck in the replay of the tapping of her fingers. _She lied_ , he realized. She had met his eyes and he'd seen what he'd wanted to see. He gulped. There were few uncertainties in that message. _Abduction. Kill. Take over._

Timeout had been broken, game resumed. Clint glanced at the messy assortment of clothes that had been in the suitcase a couple of days ago. The bedroom certainly didn't look like its occupants were planning to leave any time soon—and yet he knew for a fact that he'd be, in little over a day's time. He stiffened when he saw a hastily stowed-away metal case, no larger than 14-by-12 inches, stick out from underneath the bed. He pried it open, fearing he'd see what he saw.

The case was foam-lined, the impression of its former occupant still clear. His fingers traced the imprint left by a currently absent handgun.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?

_Leipzig, Germany_

There was only one reason—one tangible reason, anyway, that she was willing to contemplate—to why Natasha permitted herself to think that maybe she hadn't been totally out of her mind to bring Clint to Germany. Five years ago, and before that, too, Clint had had the habit of wanting to reassure her, which in itself was a kindness, she supposed, but then he went too far and assured her everything would be okay. Even now, the often-said words rung in her head. Any man who had been what Clint was for as long as Clint had wouldn't have done so, but Clint had felt the need. _Everything's gonna be okay._ It wasn't, and it hadn't. Assassins weren't meant to be idealists. It was _hopeless._

The night Clint had caught her cleaning her prosthesis—which by then was as much a part of her as it was ever going to be, however less an extension of her body as a gun or knife would have been—from their sandy trip to a playground (she had loved it—hadn't admitted to, hadn't _needed to_ —but she hated when sand, and dirt, for that matter, got stuck in the workings of the complex prosthesis), he'd grabbed her hand, stripped of its plastic forged beauty, and wrapped his own around the ugly leftovers, kissing each knuckle. When they'd gone to bed that night, he could have easily uttered those loathed words, but he didn't. She listened for them—wasn't going to be surprised to hear them—but they never came.

It spoke wonders as to the ramifications of Clint's growth the past five years. He was still an idealist—he _stayed, didn't he_ —but no longer blinded by his own idealism. Perhaps he didn't say it because he couldn't see how. It was comforting and unsettling that he'd reached that point, too. Even though he had, he still stayed, despite how irrational it sounded, despite the unspoken reasons not to.

Natasha forced these _stupid_ thoughts out of her head as she looked at the gun in her lap, a trustworthy Glock. When she had gotten Desta's message this morning, urging her to fix Sylvio's mess, she had been saddened but also relieved to be snapped out of the dreamscape of safety she and Clint had created around them, fortunately before anyone had gotten hurt. Spies and assassins of their caliber weren't supposed to lose sight or track of who they were. The distance from the hotel room had helped her reach further clarity, her (now, broken) promise to Clint stinging a little bit more by each mile.

She'd known about the abduction from internal chatter amongst the groups of Leons she'd visited. Secret-keeping, while necessary, wasn't an indulged aspect of the Leons, and rumor had had it that Sylvio had been assigned the task of abducting the beloved illegitimate daughter of a drug baron who'd been funneling money into the Tarpeius until recently. The drug baron had been caught and was making a deal with his lawyer by snitching on operations he knew scarcely about. Sylvio had been dispatched by Desta to make sure he didn't get any good ideas concerning Leonum Tarpeius.

Nikolaevna knew little about Sylvio, but enough to have thought him competent, his cocksureness aside. Evidently, his years did not produce the same caution and success as was most commonly the case. Nevertheless, she was not saddened to see him go.

Aside from that, she knew little about the topic. She didn't know who the drug baron was, or how old the daughter was. Technically it would have been a kidnapping if she'd been underage, but Natasha wasn't about to correct Desta's faulty language in case she was. She rarely questioned her orders from Desta, and not when they had escalated to this point. She wondered what had gone wrong. Sylvio's crew would be a four-men one, at least one guard and one tech, and odds were that she knew some of them by reputation and introduction, as not all could possibly be newbies.

She only had to check in with a couple of contacts and one lieutenant to find out that the abduction had taken place in Leipzig. The rest of Sylvio's clumsily covered work had lead her to an abandoned industrial plant where the rust had settled in crusts and the wind blew hollowly in the chain-link fence, the barbed wire cut down and threatening to dig into the soles of her shoes. The gravel underneath her feet made little sound and she felt the gun on her immediately, betrayed by the pale sun catching the reflection of the semi-automatic in the shards that remained from a window. She looked upwards, her face betraying little emotion aside from dissatisfaction.

"Niko?" A man, Sylvio, she suspected (the harsh sun was a current disadvantage), stepped out of the building, face puzzled but still arrogant, his hand resting on the weapon that was secured in a strap across his torso. She was secretly glad he didn't comprehend Russian diminutives. It'd be shame to have wasted it. It was unnecessary to shorten Nikolaevna, and even if he had known her, it would not have made a particularly flattering nickname. She had no first name to (want to offer) them, and so they'd found other things to call her. He'd done it to convince her of how friendly they were, emphasizing the camaraderie he hoped she felt towards all Leons. No brownie points.

She walked to him, trying to smile, to convince him that she hadn't come to eliminate him for his failures. She closed one eye to get a better look, the sun nearly in its zenith above them. She nodded, confirming her identity, as her voice could not.

He was a man in his late thirties, of average height and weight, with hazel eyes. His skin revealed Mediterranean ancestry and his wide smile spoke of all the people he'd conned. Nobody honest smiled like that whilst holding a gun in his hands. Within the hour he'd be dead, she knew that as well as the facts above.

"What are you doing here?" Sylvio asked.

She could hear the franticness in his voice. Was the girl alive, or was that where it had gone wrong? He swallowed hard, evidently trying to compose himself. She wasn't known as an executioner, although she'd performed the task a couple of times, enough to unnerve Sylvio, apparently. She was a lieutenant of Desta's, and her presence was enough to discourage people who'd deserved his wrath. Sylvio seemed smart enough to know he was fucked.

She wished she'd brought an interpreter. Elias, perhaps, or even Claudio. Men who were panicking weren't likely to listen to gestures or read notes. _Let's go inside_ , she gestured. Sylvio obeyed the command, believing that he was the one in charge. He wasn't. She hoped none of the Leons would cause trouble. Executions were messy and caused subtle uprising. As far as she knew, Sylvio had few friends, but owed some debts that wouldn't be repaid. She almost felt sorry.

Her body welcomed the cool of the interior of the building despite having donned the lightest of fabrics to accommodate the unusually humid and hot weather. Summertime could be as inconvenient as the winter. Where winter threatened in some climates with frostbite, summer did the same with dehydration. She'd learnt long ago to avoid both, and if necessary, postpone them. That knowledge alone made her wiser than Sylvio would ever live to be.

The message rung clear in Natasha's head. _Take over. Deal with it. Finish him off when you're done. Anybody protests, kill them. Get them in line, Nikolaevna._ The stress had been unusual for Desta, which told her of the pressure he was under if the drug baron talked. Although the majority of the knowledge he possessed would be, and was, futile now—they moved frequently to avoid exactly that—the baron must know deeper secrets for such action to be taken. She had made no attempt to have such confirmed when she'd called back and checked in with Desta.

As she had been prone to do ever since Desta's (now former) lieutenant, Ryley, had made an offhanded comment about her scar, she was wearing a bland t-shirt, today navy, with a plunging yet practical neckline. Leons were daily awarded looks of awe for their scars; even though she cared little about such ridiculous awe, she refused to be different and wore her disabling feature as a battle scar and a warning. The night she'd run into Clint had been an exception—an exception she'd embraced. It was an identifier, as much as she'd hated its brutal truth.

When the door was closed behind her, she became acutely aware of the gun tucked in the rear pocket of her jeans. Sylvio's crew were one of four, but as her eyes traveled the room, assessed it without raising suspicion, she realized she knew all their names. One of them was even on her list of candidates for the new group of Leons. His name was Vladislav, "Vlad" for short. She'd heard someone call him Vlad the Impaler. He could reportedly cajole any Leon into gambling—only to then rip them off. His eyes weren't filled with daredevilry now, though; they'd widened in fear – fear, she hoped, for the unknown.

She surveyed the room until her eyes landed upon the smallest form, albeit not—and far from—the weakest or least trained. She was five-foot-four with long dark hair and a scrawny body that lacked voluptuousness. It was one of the happenstances that made Natasha uneasy. The girl, adolescent in appearance but adamant she'd turned seventeen, had received the same training Natasha had when she'd been her age. Belova was her name… and Natasha could not for her life recall her first name, forgotten by the time she'd realized who exactly the girl was. She watched out for the kid, as she would have any progeny of Red Room, but pity befell her. Belova had been confused when she'd been on her own before her time. Natasha knew it was the reason why she was alive, but didn't have it in her to tell the girl. It was unnecessary cruelty and would reveal her own intimate past with Red Room.

Belova wasn't useless, but why she had been assigned to Sylvio was a mystery. Her body, however mature her mind cultivated by the masters of Red Room, was that of a lanky, nearly flat-chested teenager. Her instructors must have realized that, because she hadn't received training in the arts of seduction, and for that, Natasha was grateful. The girl who'd been meant to be her successor was now a pawn for the Leonum Tarpeius, drawn in by the promise of usage of her skills. If Natasha had any say in the matter, Belova would not learn the cruelties Natasha had. The fact that she was now a Leon, part of another criminal imperium, begged to differ.

The brown-eyed, raven-haired girl had no idea who Natasha was, of course. Not even Desta knew of her past as the wicked Black Widow, although he'd hinted he knew enough. Even if Belova had been aware of her instructors' name and allegiances, it mattered little now, because Red Room was all but vanished. Natasha had made sure of that, backed by S.H.I.E.L.D. Belova was a follower—and hundreds would live due to _that_ —and had been trained for such. She was currently scowling, bored, on what appeared to have once been the couch of a waiting lounge, nipping a torn flap of leather off the piece of furniture.

Eventually, attention snapped to Natasha, and she was relieved to see that two of them instantly awaited orders. Their body language betrayed so. Sylvio's second-in-command, a young man with white-bleached hair and enough bracelets and armlets to cover his forearms, closed the door behind him upon entering the room. He looked confused, but his face hardened in recognition.

"Who're you?" Belova asked, sensing the tension and bestowing herself the honor of breaking it.

Vlad hissed at her, annoyed. "Nikolaevna. Desta's Lioness," he informed her darkly, effectively silencing the girl's confusion and questions.

'Tell me what happened,' she mouthed, locking eyes with Vlad, who nodded in acknowledgement, and Sylvio. Sylvio, wiser than Alfredo, briefly recounted the whole ordeal. They'd grabbed the girl, using Belova—even Sylvio addressed her by last name, which told Natasha enough; he thought her inferior, and she hadn't been in the organization long enough to acquire a nickname – not one Sylvio would use, anyway—as bait. The girls had similar ages and although Koppel's daughter had been suspicious, she'd assisted the "lost tourist girl". Everything had gone as planned, until Sylvio hadn't checked the recipient of the call, alarming Koppel's marshal guards and not Koppel himself. It was Vlad who informed her of the last part, Sylvio fuming with distress.

The Impaler supplied Koppel's daughter's—Karolina's—current condition. "Drugs are wearing off. She's scared but not freaking out. What does Desta want us to do?"

'Nothing,' she mouthed. She'd heard the details. Sylvio had screwed up, alarming the authorities, but it still seemed plausible. If they killed the girl, Karolina, they'd risk Koppel retaliate by telling the police everything—something that Desta did not want. It was really simple: Sylvio had screwed up, Sylvio paid the price.

She felt no remorse as she swiftly dug into her pocket and pulled the gun, aiming it at Sylvio for an instant only before pulling the trigger; Sylvio the Screwup hit the floor with a loud thud, a red line splitting his eyebrows from the bullet hole in his forehead. Natasha refrained from blowing the smoke off the Glock in a moviesque gesture (reality, she'd learnt long ago, was nothing like the movies). She forced a look of indifference and aloofness upon her face, not willing to let emotion show, as she lowered the gun. She heard a wail from the other side of the door, presumably from the girl. Unimportant. Her eyes traveled the small crowd, none of which had seen in coming. Vlad recovered first, and rage burned across the white-head's face. His name was Spinner, or that was what he was called. He forgot his manners.

"What the fuck, lady? How is that going to help as at all—are you craz-."

The Glock was in his face before his hands could even stray the semi-automatic he was wearing. Only Spinner and Sylvio had worn them, although Vlad and Belova hadn't been left unarmed. Tension had spiked. Natasha's glare didn't waver. Her finger moved to pull the trigger, threateningly close. She indicated a choice, but the dead look in her eyes told the truth. She didn't need him alive.

"Spin, listen to her. She's Desta's, for god's sake. Do you think she'd be here if he hadn't told her to?" Vlad tried to reason, an almost bored tone in his voice, like he didn't care if Spinner lived or died either. Belova's eyes darted to him before resuming to the person holding the gun—clever girl.

"She killed Sylv, Vladislav! What's to keep her from killing the rest of us?" Spinner argued. Natasha supposed it was true, although one had to be stupid to think she could finish the job alone. She had to credit him for his composure, though. Her right hand remained firmly on the gun. Spinner had witnessed Sylvio's demise; he shouldn't doubt her resolution.

"Nothing." Belova was quick to catch on. It boded well for her future as a Leon. Leona, whatever. Natasha didn't like the dark edge to her voice. The girl tried to establish eye contact. "She'd kill us all and walk away without feeling bad. As would any one of us if Desta ordered it." The look she sent Natasha was unafraid, perhaps even admiring—definitely unsettling. It'd haunt Natasha's nightmares to have seen a girl so fearful and yet determined. "What do we do?"

The last was directed at Natasha. Spinner scowled sourly but seemed to accept the concept. "Fine," he hissed, making sure to sound dissatisfied. She wondered what Sylvio had promised him. "What about Anya?"

Ah, the fourth member of Sylvio's crew. Natasha cocked her head, indicating for someone to explain. Belova and Vlad had done the talking for her. Perhaps she should recommend Belova after this—if they were to succeed.

"I'm here," a female voice squeaked. She had heard the gunshot and her eyes widened when she saw her former boss' body. She came from upstairs, unarmed.

'Your purpose?' Natasha inquired, stowing the gun away to ease everybody up. She didn't need spooked Leons, she needed a unit of people who could function and do their tasks smoothly. She'd be well when she was back in Dresden, preferably in Clint's arms. She shook her head mentally at the notion, hoping they hadn't seen her falter.

"Anya's our tech. Sylvio rushed her so she couldn't make sure who answered the call," Vlad said, a softer look when he glanced at the technical operator. Due to the unneeded save, Natasha suspected that they were sleeping together, given the look of gratitude Anya sent back, equally soft. It was not unheard of, and anything but forbidden. Natasha felt the need to clear her throat at the blunt display of affection in the middle of a horrible situation when Spinner interrupted.

"Have they traced the call?" he asked Anya, echoing Natasha's thoughts. The blonde woman shook her head, beaming when she explained how she'd tricked their digital pursuers. She seemed energetic in her pallor.

_So very young_ , Natasha thought, although she herself looked younger than the woman. Anya had no control of her facial features, and Belova looked fifteen, uncertain with her skillset. Vlad with his emotions although compliance and obedience, and Spinner, rebellious and vocally so. Whoever had picked this team hadn't thought of them as a whole but as parts. Someone who hadn't seen Belova's training would instantly think her inferior—and the feeling of superiority would go to one's head, making that someone make mistakes, as Sylvio had so evidently done. Anya seemed to pale at the sight of a dead man—or perhaps it was the blood, Natasha couldn't be certain, but thought her ill-suited for the task. Of course, she argued, it hadn't supposed to end with a dead Leon.

She withdrew the notepad and pen from her pocket, starting to write a message. There was no room for misinterpretation. _We need to act fast. Anya, re-establish contact, but this time, his private cell. Spinner, the girl will be needed for affirmation. Vlad, I need to know how much Sylvio told the marshal._ She sent the piece of paper around for everyone to read. The trio nodded in acknowledgement and went to do their assigned tasks. Her eyes lingered a little longer on Spinner. She'd need him now, but if he made a mistake like Sylvio's, he'd die like Sylvio, Belova's statement come true.

"What about me?" Belova croaked when the others had left the room, Vlad to assist Anya. Natasha would have preferred if he'd gone with Spinner, but time was of the essence, leaving little room for discussions.

'You'll be my voice,' Natasha told her. 'I need you to hand Karolina over when the time comes. They won't consider you a threat. Not if you act afraid.'

Belova nodded unsurely, the orders sinking in. She took orders well, Natasha noticed, but she wasn't battle-worn. 'What's your name?' she asked, a softer look on her face.

"Yelena," the girl said, and in that moment, she _was_ a girl. _Yelena Belova_ , Natasha forced herself to remember, _the girl they meant to send after me_. Red Room had always had a wicked sense of succession. Undoubtedly, they'd meant to crown Yelena when—if—she'd succeeded in killing the woman she was meant to succeed. It was what Natasha had done, along with many of her sisters, their lives lost for some cruel game of gladiators.

'You'll be fine.' And with that, Natasha's Nikolaevna mask went back up. She saw the girl gulp as the shadows played across her salvaged neck. _God, so very young_. Was that what Clint had seen once? A girl, (in her case, a young woman) already a ruin with the misdeeds and disillusions? Natasha had been so bitter then, world-weary, nasty, and believing the world too corrupted to ever do good. Clint had spared her, teaching her humanity. She'd repaid the favor by running out on him five years ago. She'd done the same now, even if she intended to return. It was probably for the best, too. She didn't do goodbyes. Only the kind that involved murder, and she'd never want to part with Clint on those terms.

When Vlad returned, Natasha asked him: 'How old is the girl?'

"Nineteen. Liberal arts student," he snorted, but he had the grace to let the amusement escape his features. "Anya's ready. She's got a link for Karolina, should we need it. Who's gonna do the talking?" he asked solemnly. He quickly realized his mistake, but made no attempt to blush. "No offense."

Natasha pointed to Belova. If the Impaler had anything to add, he didn't, aside from a mild frown. 'I'll tell you what to say,' she added.

By the time Natasha had written down a list of verbatim instructions, she'd thought of Clint and Dresden thrice, and summoned Anya. The thirty-something tech had managed to obtain the number to Koppel's private cell phone.

Yet she didn't go on immediately, her eyes lingering on the door to their hostage's prison. Sylvio had said it'd been three hours since they took her—he'd called immediately upon taking her. He'd made a dozen mistakes, but perhaps Desta had been rash in claiming his life. It wasn't Natasha's decision to make and she felt no remorse towards the dead man lying in the lounge. Would Clint have? She'd always felt that he was disappointed when she merely followed orders, as if she was a machine and not an individual. She did consider consequences, but Sylvio's death neither benefitted nor damaged her, aside from pleasing Desta. She doubted Clint would see it that way, if he ever learnt of today's events.

She pressed the doorknob down to the room before she even realized what she was doing. Koppel's daughter was pretty, brunette with widened blue eyes. Her makeup had been spoiled by tears, but anger seemed more at the surface than fear. Her bag had evidently been emptied of any items that could be used as a weapon or tracked, her belongings scattered in a small pile. Natasha accidentally kicked a medicinal bottle when she entered the room, sending the small orange bottle across the floor.

" _Please_ ," Karolina sobbed. She seemed exhausted. Her eyes were puffy, her voice and nose snotty. It wasn't attractive to be taken hostage. Again, movies had it wrong. "Don't hurt me."

Natasha shook her head to calm the nineteen-year-old. Spinner watched her from the door. 'I won't,' she mouthed but doubted the girl would understand her. It was a surprisingly low amount of people who could read lips.

"What did you give me?" Karolina spat, her emotion changing as rapidly as a whiplash. "Drugs—what were they? The baby…"

Natasha stiffened. Was that the mistake Sylvio had made? Feeding drugs to a pregnant woman? Abortion was forgivable. Karolina barely seemed out of childhood herself—albeit Natasha had no place to make that call—and would make a young mother. Sylvio had been right; she and Yelena did appear to be similarly aged, Karolina younger due to her complete innocence and Yelena older due to her _non_ -innocence.

'It's gonna be fine,' Natasha found herself lying. She picked up the bottle of prenatal medicine and offered it to Karolina as a truce. Hopefully, Karolina would think her a safer hostage-taker than Sylvio due to her calmness and soft appearance. Hopefully she'd not suspect her of having killed the man who'd originally captured her.

Luckily, it was Koppel who picked up five minutes later, undoubtedly having bribed his marshals. Clever, Natasha thought, but made sure Belova asked him. When he confirmed, they all let out sighs of relief.

" _They won't stay quiet for long_ ," the drug baron quipped. " _Please, don't hurt my Karola. Can I speak to her? She's-she's…_ "

_Will anybody weep for me like that?_ Natasha wondered, and found she didn't want to know the answer. If she'd done something right in this line of business, they wouldn't; they would let out sighs of relief when she went down for good. What about Clint, her mind asked, what about what he'd do. _Let him never know._

"30,000 Euros and we won't harm Karolina, Herr Koppel," Yelena said, per instruction. Natasha nodded in approval. The girl understood to fake an accent. She sounded surer of herself and older.

" _I'll get the money_ ," the man hastily promised. Natasha saw the reason to never have children—not even the illegitimate ones. Her heart sank in guilt and she banished the realization. She'd wish to be Koppel any day. Perhaps even today.

"And the cops?" Belova inquired, her eyes briefly locking with Natasha's.

" _I'll bribe them. Where do we meet?_ "

\- 

Thirty-nine minutes later, Natasha felt hollow. She shouldn't have, but she didn't know what the proper reaction was. It seemed neither did Vlad or Belova, or even Spinner. Anya was a mess and had asked to be alone. Everybody had obliged. Spinner had clapped Vlad's shoulder and suggested they go to a pub for beers, but neither had seemed particularly festive. Belova— _Yelena_ —had gone still, mirroring the others. Natasha would have felt better if she'd been arrogantly boasting.

It was a necessary evil. That's what she'd be telling herself for the rest of her life. Things had gone exactly as Desta had ordered it. Sylvio had died, but part of Natasha believed Sylvio had always been meant to die, so she wasn't going to mourn the loss of him, but the rest had gone on and succeeded. They just hadn't been informed of the endgame. Koppel had showed up with the money, twitchy and looking like he hadn't slept for days, the federal marshal he'd bribed waiting by the car. Natasha hadn't recognized him, but he'd recognized her from the scar. Perhaps that was when he reconsidered, backing away. It left a sour taste in Natasha's mouth. To think that a man who'd pay €30,000 and claimed to love his daughter would start backing off when he saw his opponents—a mute woman and an unarmed girl. She'd put Anya and Vlad in charge of the exit strategy.

Anya, Vladislav, Spinner, and Yelena Belova. All would be moving up in the world and hierarchy of Tarpeius. She'd give the recommendations herself. What Desta did with them was entirely up to him. She had no disillusions of power. She suspected Anya wouldn't be volunteering anytime soon, and perhaps Vlad would decline the offer Natasha had in store based on her frailty. She'd sobbed when Natasha had shot Karolina Koppel (her surname had been something else, but since it hadn't prevented Tarpeius from tracking her down, it really didn't matter). Natasha considered herself merciful. Father and daughter had died together, almost simultaneously. They hadn't bled out, dying instantly. It was more than Desta had ordered. He'd insinuated she take her time, but she refused to feed off Koppel's pain—either of them. She'd failed. Both had died knowing the other wouldn't live. (Or, in Karolina's case, begging for her child to live).

She felt filthy for feeling no remorse. Worse—she felt horrible for waking up happy this morning, when the cause to her happiness could be taken away instantly by a bullet, as had been the case of Karolina and Franz Koppel. What was to keep Clint from being too slow one day and losing his life so carelessly?

Natasha realized now what betraying Tarpeius would mean. Koppel had sold them out to save himself—an act Natasha would have copied him after thoughtlessly. She'd just shot five people to deal with one deserter. Sylvio, whose death she'd already forgotten; the corrupt and unnamed federal marshal whose job it had been to ensure Koppel didn't flee the country before his trial, and who'd tried to defend Koppel too late, a victim of Natasha's Glock; Franz Koppel, obviously, a shot to the head short-circuiting his nervous system and killing him instantly; Karolina Koppel, for all she had witnessed (and perhaps to finally piss on Koppel—Natasha wouldn't put it past Desta to do so); and unborn Baby Koppel. Natasha had checked Karolina's bag. It _had_ been prenatal medicine. There was even a doctor's appointment in her calendar. She'd have known the sex next week.

Three generations wiped from the Earth with two bullets. Had to be a personal record, she thought sourly and bitterly. She'd tried to save Karolina, stupid as she was. She didn't know why. The others didn't seem to blame her or think less of her, and maybe that was why it was so horrible. That was what Clint would never understand: that the Leons were family, understanding of misdeeds and crimes, of conflicting emotions, and of the need to be inhumanely harsh. Cakes of blood—Karolina's blood, or maybe the baby's, it had all been a mess, blood coloring fabric too fast—sat in the crescents of her fingernails. She hadn't noticed until now, and for some reason, it made it all real, all _tangible._

She had dismissed the four surviving Leons after the small massacre. Rain had wiped the streets clean, and they'd dragged the body of Sylvio to a nearby crematorium. They hadn't had enough time to bring the other bodies, but Natasha had made the call to leave them there. Local police would have no idea where to look, and Karolina's mother deserved a corpse to bury. A small mercy, but one thing Natasha had learnt in the cruel world she lived in: people were only dead if there was a body to bury. At least to her.

Natasha had hopelessly boarded a train for Dresden in the foul hope Clint would be there. Hell, maybe she wanted to be caught for what she'd done today. Her head throbbed at her temple where she'd received a misplaced punch. She'd been offered a black hoodie by Vladislav, once he realized she wasn't about to leave with them. It obscured her face and covered her bloody forearms. The metallic smell wasn't sickening, had never been, but it was surreal to literarily have so much blood on her hands, particularly when not knowing whose it was.

The sounds and noises tracks and rails distracted her from pondering too hard until she reached Dresden, hollow as the day she'd been born. She backtracked her original route, and couldn't remember having gone when she got there (although she remembered the deaths vividly). She'd ridden herself of the Glock at some point before she'd e-mailed Desta the news of the success—a bitter word, she realized. It shouldn't bother her. Koppel had been a traitor and he'd just been plain stupid to risk Karolina's life. _What about the baby, then—what's that excuse?_ She kicked a tin can a little too fiercely when the question popped into her head. It wasn't a baby, she argued. It never lived. Life came after birth, outside the womb. Part of her didn't believe that.

Only when she stood outside the door to the shitty apartment did the thought of running occur to her. By then it was too late, because her bruised and bloody knuckles had already strayed the hardwood, and seconds later, the door was slammed open by a hotheaded archer, his anger drowning in concern as he took one look at her. Anger would have been easier to deal with. In his anger, he would forget to inquire about what had happened.

She regretted not having washed her arms.

She regretted coming back.

She regretted pressing her palms—palms of a killer—against the soft tissue of a dying woman.

She regretted lowering her guard enough for the federal marshal to get a punch.

She regretted not taking Spinner up on that offer.

She regretted not warning Vlad and Anya that whatever they were having wouldn't remain pure in Tarpeius.

She regretted not having told Yelena that is was okay to be scared.

Natasha remembered none of these regrets as Clint enveloped her, embraced her like a human blanket, breathing in the scent of soaked assassin. Undoubtedly he could smell the blood on her. She could feel the tension of his anger, even as he suppressed it. "God, I was worried," he murmured into her hair, and for a moment, Natasha could pretend that she'd just been late—that he hadn't noticed the bruise or the blood. Then he shrunk from her, his eyes cold. "Interpol's looking for you."

_What have you done?_

She regretted not having run the moment her knuckles sunk into the wood. She should have known Clint—with all his goddamn ethics and morals and speeches of forgiveness—would never condone slaughter, never personally sanction the display of unjustified slaughter.

She stepped back. 'We play different games, Clint.'

_I wish you'd never have to kill an unborn child, its mother begging you to save her_. Because Clint would have found a way—and been successful. Natasha hadn't. She'd just stared at Karolina, panicked, expressing no emotion.

Nikolaevna had no reason to allow Karolina to live.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?

_Dresden, Germany_

Clint never took his eyes off her.

He scrutinized her and she would have been uncomfortable if he'd been someone else ( _anyone else_ ) although she was trained to be submitted to such scrutiny and act as if it did not matter. That had changed since her disability. His resolve was his mistake, though. She watched him become undone, jaw clenching, when she removed the first item of clothing, movement slow and meant to entrap. He leaned more into the door behind him, the door that also happened to be the only visible exit of the bathroom. His adamancy to get her showered and into warm clothes would be his first mistake.

He hadn't ratted her out. Interpol wouldn't come running, (she told herself). It irked her that he _knew_. She hadn't inquired as to how much he knew, fearing she'd reveal rather than gather information. Had he been contacted by S.H.I.E.L.D.? If Interpol made calls to S.H.I.E.L.D. already, they were desperate, grasping at straws. Worse, they would realize who the true perpetrators were. She suddenly thought of the Leons, hoping they had left the country by now. Her thoughts fell on Belova in particular. If Interpol—or S.H.I.E.L.D., for that matter—captured her, would she talk? Would she tell them about the red-haired assassin who'd single-handedly murdered five people? Red Room didn't exactly train their operatives in the art of loyalty, only to themselves. The murder of the five people wasn't the worst thing in her ledger; it was, however, the most recent addition.

Clint tried not to be affected by her undressing when she removed the t-shirt and slipped out of the jeans. They fell into a sloppy pile, a wet mess. She stared levelly at him, a challenge in her eyes, an option to forget it all. He'd woken up to her like this this morning. He'd been _pleased_ at it. She remembered. Clint was touchy-feely with her and it didn't bother her until she realized how good his hands on her body made her feel. It wasn't like that with other men. Her body was finely attuned to Clint Barton, and five years hadn't changed that.

It made them utter _idiots_ , if you asked her. As an assassin, this was as much of a death sentence as a bullet in the gut. These things just didn't happen and never turned out well.

Natasha saw the desire flicker in his eyes, darkened with arousal. Was she his prisoner? It would imply that she wouldn't be successful in manipulating him. She wasn't sure she'd be capable either way. She welcomed his attention as she stripped down, stepping backwards into the shower cubicle with invitation in her eyes. Pale alabaster skin surrounded itself by ceramic tiles, clean enough to give off a dim mirror impression of her body. She turned the showerhead on and felt water splash and rays redden her skin, covering it in a thin layer of water.

She might not be vocally responsive, but her relationship with Clint had always had an, uh, physical nature. Natasha sucked on her lip as the water turned crimson, emptying her forearms of the blood, Karolina's blood. For a minute, she felt pristinely clean and innocent. As _if_. It was a nice sentiment, though. She'd just seen and done too much to fool herself into believing it.

Natasa heard him _groan_ , and restrained herself from letting a smirk of victory creep to her lips. She was more than happy to take the edge off when she felt the body of another press against her, water be damned—his _clothes_ be damned. It was an echo of their reunion. He had her pinned to one of the walls of the stall, eyes dark, breath strained with need. She waited, never batting an eye although she found herself struggling to keep her own desire unexpressed. There was less than an inch between them, and she felt her stomach do somersaults at his proximity.

She swallowed hard. This was it. Was he going to be Clint the Agent, like Sylvio had been Sylvio the Screwup, and berate her, take her into custody despite his own feelings (she hoped to God no, but deep down knew she wasn't going to think less of him for doing so), or was he going to be Clint _Her Partner_? They were two distinct people in her mind, and maybe that was why she was so screwed up, expecting people to be as messed up mentally as herself with her Natalia's, Natasha's, and Nikolaevna's. Compartmentalization had never failed her.

Attraction was undeniable at this point. It wasn't just that, although they could have been saner if that had been the case. It would be written off as attraction, not the remnants of a partnership reinforced by the physical and mental need to be together as if woven so. She vowed never to let him become what she'd let herself morph into. No, Clint Barton and _Nikolaevna_ weren't compatible. He was good, despite his misdeeds. He hadn't known better, but now, she suspected, he was an exemplary agent; the agent junior agents looked up to and cursed themselves for being unable to live up to as a standard. But he'd been _hers_ first.

_He's still yours. Look at him_ , the voice in her head told her. She didn't have to. Everything about Clint spoke of trust. He was mad at her, angry, but underneath that, he wanted to protect her, even from herself and himself. She was a source of conflict, but didn't have it in her to show him her dark side to convince him of what she knew, because she liked having someone look at her like that, even after today. Hell, he knew her worst misdeeds of the past, the transgressions no-one should be forgiven for, but he'd pushed them aside and worked alongside her as if she'd been a fellow American with a couple of years' worth of field experience.

Maybe that's why she didn't feel so bad when his lips crashed down on hers; his hands slowly slid down her forearms, preventing her from escaping but also from letting her hands link behind his neck and drawing him closer. He was angry, she could tell. Hell, she could feel it in every vibe of his being. There was nothing soft about the collision of lips, and his teeth dug into her bottom lip in some form of disciplining, drawing blood. In retaliation, she hooked her long leg around his waist, feeling his body giving into temptation. He loosened his grip around her wrists enough to cup her face and her tangled hair, not too gentle about his treatment of her.

If this was fighting with Clint, it was as mind-blowing and disarming as vice comments. These days, she preferred him stunned speechless. It prevented him from reminding her of the reasons this would never end well. Also, it prevented him from speaking and asking questions she'd rather leave unspoken. The day he asked about her current job and employers, she'd have to lie—and she didn't want that, so she did everything to postpone the day. Right now, he was doing a fine job of doing exactly that.

"You're going to get yourself killed," he murmured against her neck as he placed hot kisses on her skin. Only halfway through his journey did she remember the scar, and by then, her body was too relaxed to push him away. Her eyelids fluttered as his fingers dug into her skin, itching for release and permission.

She let her hands—sans the prosthesis, as she'd been meaning to shower, not be sprayed with water while her ex-partner pressed her downright possessively, as if the oxygen in her lungs was the only one that mattered, against the stall's wall—leave marks across his back, equally rough, sprawled across his shoulder blades in a freakish embrace that left her breathless, heart throbbing in arousal. She felt his response to her touch, too, and soon, anger was replaced by primal desire and the need to have the entire thing postponed.

They were fucked up. She realized that they were merely delaying the inevitable. A confrontation had to be made—although she would have rather it didn't, Clint would never be able to forget what must be so clear in his mind (clear enough to accuse her, anyway, and he'd always looked to give her the benefit of the doubt)—but _this_ was much better.

Natasha whimpered as he removed her hands from his hemline. It wasn't fair that he be allowed to remain dressed while she was uncovered. It'd be a lie to say he wanted her more than she wanted him; she had reacquainted herself with his archer body the past week and it didn't disappoint. Clint's touch was fucking addicting. He had the sexual prowess of a whore but the morals of a saint, which was contradictory, given his employment prior to S.H.I.E.L.D. She wasn't going to point that out. No, Clint might not have been the womanizing agent, but he knew how to undo her with few touches. Maybe that was why they worked so well (although Natasha severely doubted so).

She moaned in response to one of those touches. He broke free from her lips, presumably in need of the deprived oxygen. His eyes, so damn close it should unnerve her, given his allegiances, studied her face. With fragile carefulness, his hand moved to tuck away hair that obscured her face—and the developing bruise. She shrugged his hand off her. He had no right to see.

Yet he did, and his face darkened with a different kind of anger. "Who did this?" he demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.

Natasha's eyes refused to meet his. If she revealed that it had been the federal marshal who'd struck her, she'd confess to having killed him, too. Outright confessing what she'd done when she slipped off the radar wouldn't do whatever they were doing good. His hand forced her chin up, her eyes reluctantly darting to his. " _Who did this, Tasha?_ "

Alas, she gave up. 'A dead man.'

"Dead men cannot harm the living," he stated coldly, trying to find conflict in her eyes to mirror his own.

'He's dead,' she mouthed in honest confirmation. 'That's all you need to know.'

"Leipzig," he realized, whispering. She knew better than to nod. Suddenly the passion had left the stall, leaving behind two broken shells and cold-water rain. She hugged herself, shying away, expecting him to look at her with hatred and shunning. The moment had passed.

It was he who moved first, his hand grabbing for the faucet and turning it off. The water ceased, and she felt a chill. Despite his own state of dampness, he held out a towel for her first. She was more than mildly disappointed to have been interrupted, but accepted the gesture and the item anyway, wrapping herself in it.

"Tasha," he began, realizing his mistake. Natasha shied away.

'This won't work with questions, Clint,' she said. It was true and concerned all kinds of questions—the direct ones, the protective ones, the demanding ones; she couldn't give him the answers, for her safety and for his. She hoped her eyes conveyed the emotion. _I can't allow myself to do this if you want to know everything about me._

It was an old condition, stemming from their S.H.I.E.L.D. partnership. Nobody would walk away sane knowing everything she'd done as the Black Widow. Nobody alive truly knew, either. It was something she'd accepted long ago. Her trust did not depend on how much somebody knew about her, but rather, how much of that information had been relayed voluntarily from her own mouth without the intent to manipulate. So yeah, she trusted Clint because he knew and still cared.

"Let's go to bed," he said with finality, a hand softly straying her back along her spine. _You can't just ignore it and it'll go away, Clint_. Hell, she'd tried.

\- 

_Riga, Latvia_

_\- The next day_

\- 

"I give you a week to _recover_ , and you come back more damaged than I shipped you off," Rosario said in disbelief. Clint was no fool, he could hear the real question: _Are you kidding me?_

"Technically, it was more like 'dropped off'," Clint argued, as he pulled the shirt back on. He hadn't been complaining when Natasha had scratched him up like a clawing cat in heat. Not _at all_. He suppressed a smirk. He hadn't expected Rosario to demand what was practically a strip search, either. At least he'd gotten to keep his pants on, he thought to himself. Suffice to say, Natasha's marks _there_ were a whole lotta more personal, her twisted version of a parting gift. Worst part of it was that he hadn't _minded_.

_Closet masochist_ , Clint's brain scolded. Nobody who'd ever live to know his inner rants would ever judge the former carnie. He didn't surround himself with people who'd pass that sorta judgment. Still, he wasn't about to tell Alejo Rosario either. No way in hell. He had parted with his ex-partner less than 24 hours ago, yet found himself missing her presence, not just physically. Rosario just wasn't enough. Before Vienna, he had been, but that had been when Clint's last memory of Natasha Romanov had been blurry and fading.

Except she wasn't Romanov. It sounded insane—most of what he came up with these days was, having 'compromised' written all over it—but when she'd returned from Leipzig, he'd meant to give her some berating speech about morals and _right_ 's and how what she'd done was _wrong_ , but the moment he'd laid eyes on the soaked Russian assassin, he'd realized something far more profound, something far more unsettling. _He didn't care_. He'd said it in Vienna, but only in Dresden, after Leipzig, had he realized what it meant. Condoning murder. He'd never condoned Romanov's murders, but he had condoned _hers_. Whoever the mute, partially fingerless assassin was.

He should have never checked that voicemail. Romanov was trouble and conflict personified, wrapped up in marble beauty. Coulson had once said, jokingly (as much as he could joke, anyway) that whoever had Romanov, had Barton. Clint didn't want to contemplate the accuracy of the statement. Then again—he didn't want to condone the _slaughter_ of _innocents_ , but here he was, hours after having bedded a woman with the blood of said innocents still dripping from her. God, he was in trouble. Sure, he was used to not getting what he wanted—S.H.I.E.L.D., however courteous and respectful of seniority and his skillsets, prioritized their needs before those of their agents—but that had been _different_ , because this time, it was part of himself that was trying to reason. His brain wanted to bring her in and do everything in his power to secure a pardon (however slim the chances of success were on _that_ one), but his heart (and desires he'd rarely, in the past five years, allowed to rule him) begged to differ.

"Sometimes I wonder what you do for fun, Barton," Alejo told him, then, without missing a beat, added: "And then I tell myself not to _ask_."

Translation: _I care about you, but I don't want to confirm how fucked up you are._ That's nice to know, Clint sarcastically assessed. Still, he'd rather have his money on Rosario having his back than no one. So, not wanting to antagonize and offer Alejo more time to ask about his "spare time" (and more importantly, how he spent it), he deflected: "How was your week, Rosario?"

Alejo looked at him as if he was asking him to blow up the sky. Jeez. Clint almost felt bad for adding more wrinkles to that face. Then he reconsidered. He was merely keeping Rosario's sense of suspicion in shape. Alejo should be _thanking him_. Somehow, Clint estimated that would happen sometime around pigs flying.

Rosario didn't justify his question with a response. "I hope you're more convincing in the field," he growled, making a notation. His voice betrayed no emotion. "Fury wants to see you."

"Fury?" Clint repeated, dumbfounded. He was too much of an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. not to realize that all of his S.I.D. reports were, eventually, accessible to the director. However, he had no false perceptions of what Fury thought of him. He was a thorn in Fury's side (and that was putting it mildly) and whoever Fury had assigned monitor his S.I.D. work must've been, too. Nobody was unreachable to Nick Fury and fewer forgotten. Clint's glory days were far passed in Fury's book. Clint would be glad to never have his _Hawkeye_ file pulled and read again. Was it a coincidence, he wondered, that Fury wanted to speak with him _now_?

He'd been Fury's agent too long to be that naïve.

Rosario had called him in Dresden when he'd received news what had happened in Leipzig. Apparently, Interpol, upon realizing how orchestrated the murders of three people had been, had suspected S.I.D. to be involved. They hadn't asked nicely, and by the time Rosario had asked him if _he_ was involved, Clint had connected the pieces.

Three dead. One arrested drug lord, the officer responsible for him, and a young woman, the daughter of the drug lord. Broad daylight. It was neat and messy at the same time. The circumstances messy. Compared to how they'd been murdered, neat. By the time the authorities realized it was the work of the Leonum Tarpeius, he'd been breathing in her scent against the hot splashes of water.

"Don't ask me, Barton. _You're_ S.H.I.E.L.D.'s former agent. You should know Fury better than me," Alejo countered, a trace of disdain in his voice. He didn't hold Fury in high regard, but so few of the S.I.D. agents Clint had met did. He might be the superspy, but he'd done things the Europeans didn't condone to attain the reputation the rumors insinuated. The "Europeans" was what Clint called S.I.D. agents. Rosario's inclusion depended on Clint's mood.

"Maybe he wants me back," Clint replied wryly. Fury hadn't contacted him in _years_. Coulson called sometimes, but the calls were getting less frequent. Clint was the closest thing to forgettable you could be in Fury's book.

Rosario merely snorted in reply. He was curious, but only as curious as Clint allowed him to be. As a handler, he tried hard to maintain at least the illusion of privacy. Aside from, of course, _when he asked his asset to remove his goddamn shirt_. Still, Clint couldn't think of a better handler in S.I.D. It was nice to not have his intentions read immediately upon arriving in Riga, as would have been the case with Coulson.

"Wait, see me? As in, face-to-face?" He waited to be proven wrong; to have a snarky reply concerning videoconferences thrown back at him, but it didn't come.

"He's _here_ , Barton. In Riga. His Royal Majesty wants to see you in person," Rosario relayed, but did not manage to conceal the worry on his face. The words of mockery belied his facial expression. One word from Fury and they'd get split up. Considering their successes the past year, _that_ would be a shame, and a mistake on Fury's part, but few agents had the courage to tell him, instead opting to disapprove in silence. It was pretty much a given unless your name was Hill or Coulson or had a fancy title attached to it.

Clint had not been widely welcomed by the _Strategic Intervention Division_ , but his skillset and vast experience had been appreciated in the fresh-faced agency. That was putting it mildly. Most of the Europeans had been judgmental rookies that had never known the true meaning of grey zones and the second required to make a call that could prove devastating. Within his early tenure, he'd broken in a few of the more difficult newbies and introduced them to the dark world of espionage and sabotage. By the time a Spaniard named Alejandro Rosario had been assigned to him, he'd already become a living legend most agents avoided. Since then, he'd become a regular ghost, only checking in when he had to. Even now, they referred to him as "that S.H.I.E.L.D. agent". Clint wondered, for the first time, how much that was true.

He jumped down from the examination table and shrugged on his civilian wear jacket. _Fury knows_ , the treacherous voice in his head told him. But how? They had been careful, they had been deceptive, using false identities and paid in cash. Except when—Clint banished the thought. Natasha would _never_. Yet insecurity surfaced. Would Tasha anonymously tip Fury off about their dalliance? Surely not when it meant revealing herself to be operating against the guidelines and agenda of S.H.I.E.L.D.?

"Best not keep him waiting," Clint sullenly replied.

\- 

_Valletta, Malta_

\- 

"I do not know if I have told you, Nikolaevna, but I am pleased with your compilation. And how you handled Koppel, of course. I'll consider your newest additional recommendations. Belova, a curious choice. Others would have excluded her due to her childishness," Desta said as the logs of the fireplace cackled.

'Child _like_ ness. I assure you she's not childish,' the woman whispered, no sound leaving her lips. She made the contents of the wineglass swivel before sipping the rich-flavored red substance.

Desta smiled in approval. "Ah, yes. She is one of _theirs_ , isn't she? Oh well. No reason our organization cannot benefit from foreign programmes. You like her? She'd make a fine addition."

'Red Room barely trained her,' she scoffed, feigning disinterest, feigning superiority.

"Yet she remains trained," he pointed out. "No matter. Let's change the topic to a far more interesting one. My sister sends news of Novi Sad. She tells me the children are settling in well."

The woman went very still. 'Good. Safe, I assume?'

"Your lack of faith wounds me, Nikolaevna. Yes, the boys will remain safe, out of reach to our enemies… As long as you continue your dutiful tenure." A threat was hidden there, but it was as harmless as the idea of her treason; he knew she wouldn't betray him. Leipzig had assured that.

'I had no intention to refrain,' she mouthed obediently although she looked at him with dead eyes.

"I know, woman, I know."

'I am not your woman,' she coldly replied.

Desta gave an almost hearty laugh. "No, you are no one's. A shadow of a shade. That's how I like you. You are the night dagger. More trained than Belova will ever be. I have your loyalty, not your heart."

'Some things are not for sale. They cannot be purchased if they are long gone.'

Desta _tsk_ ed. "So cynical."

She shrugged. 'Some things cannot be helped.'

"Tell me, dear, what were you doing in Dresden anyway? It's been months since you used that hotel. Found something you fancied? _Someone_ perhaps?"

Desta looked at her intensely as if he tried to catch something unseen. He saw her inhale and turn away, her head facing towards him only so he could read her labial movements.

'Nothing of interest, Desta,' she assured him tiredly as she looked out the window to see Valletta's skyline unfold in the darkness. 'Even the wicked grows nostalgic.'

\- 

_S.I.D. Base – Riga, Latvia_

\- 

The sound of the door sliding apart and sliding back after his entrance was deafening. In fact, Clint's heartbeat seemed deafening, but he chose to not think about that, chose to focus on controlling his body's failing attempts to disclose no tells. "Sir, you wanted to see me."

Nicholas Fury had not changed a bit in the last two years, and if he had, it was for the meaner. Sure, he looked a little rougher around the edges, but with the world changing and getting more dangerous, S.H.I.E.L.D. had to accommodate. Clint had to remind himself that this was the man that frequently dealt with Stark's bouts of rebelliousness and instantly pitied the man. It was hard pitying Nick Fury, and maybe what he felt was more like sorry for the people Fury's jobs required him to handle.

"Agent Barton," the older man addressed (although Fury's age had always been a point of interest). The one-eyed man grimaced as if he didn't like this situation one bit better than Clint did. _That alone_ unnerved Clint, who stood placidly by.

"Director Fury," Clint retorted obediently and routinely.

"It's not gonna take long. Stark told me to pass on a message for you," Fury said, his back turned to Clint, who could have sighed in pure relief. Obviously he wasn't out of the woods yet, but Fury would have been more direct had he been meaning to accuse Clint. "After harassing me for half an hour with foolhardy accusations, he asked me in a semi-polite way to hand you _this_ next time I saw you."

He conjured an envelope from somewhere and handed it straightforwardly to Clint. It was a bland one, unmarked with an address. Guessing from Fury's offhanded comment about Stark, the billionaire and former teammate had been unable to track Clint's address down (seeing as he didn't have any, that might have been why). His assignments changed so fast that maybe Stark hadn't been able to keep up. Yeah, right, like that would happen.

Clint accepted it and flipped it in his hands. He knew better than to assume its contents were private; he had, after all, been handed it from the director of an intelligence agency whose methods rivaled that of their enemies. Paranoia was Fury's flavor. Within good reason, Clint thought glumly to himself upon realizing his own predicament.

"What's in it?" he asked, trying to be nonchalant. He'd cut his ties with Tony Stark and the rest of the Avengers years ago.

Fury's expression betrayed nothing. "An invitation."

Clint snorted but managed to look apologetic. "Sorry, sir."

"Nothing to be sorry for, Agent," Fury said in his best _you better not be shitting me_ tone. "Stark's still the loose cannon. Frankly, I came because I was curious of what you'd say."

"'Say', sir?" Clint repeated, unsure of how his situation amused Fury the slightest.

The director shrugged non-committedly and left. "Lighten up, Barton. It's a birthday invite."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?
> 
> Or, the chapter in which Clint has accepted the invitation and participates in a surprisingly pleasant conversation, and Natasha tries to operate without suspicion.

_New York City, New York, United States of America_

_\- Later that week_

The whole ordeal was damn extravagant, queerly and eccentrically so. When taking into consideration _who_ had planned and financed the entire thing, maybe it wasn't so strange after all. He was an eccentric man, Tony Stark, extraordinary to the point of narcissistically infuriating, yet just like every other rich guy when it came down to his wealth and accompanying personality. That was Clint's assessment anyway, and he struck to it as he leaned his head backwards to gaze upon the gold leaf ceiling held by the white marble columns aligned on opposite sides of the hall, each pillar wrapped with shiny colored paper coils like liquid confetti. 

Extravagance didn't cover the appearance or atmosphere of the ballroom. Balloon-like spheres of colored glass hung from the ceiling, giving it the appearance of a massive bubble bath, supported by silver and lavender tablecloths, balloons, confetti, and even giftwrapping. Clint wouldn't be surprised if an interior decorator had been hired. He thought most party-attenders ridiculously overdressed, but then again—only Stark would have a dress code for an infant's birthday party, even if it was her first. 

The girl in question was currently out of Clint's sight, but that did not worry the archer the slightest. Hadley had plenty of aunts and uncles, if not by blood then by merit, and half of them alone would be enough to frighten off even the toughest of armies. Not to mention her horribly rude, tactless and overprotective father whose reputation alone would, hopefully, warn off most potential boyfriends. Clint had to crack a smile at that notion. Despite Stark's eccentric (and occasionally scientifically hazardous) tendencies, Hadley was a lucky girl with parents who loved her. It was more than what Clint had had (then again, what child could claim to know half of the eastern seaboard's superheroes by the age of one sole year). He quickly shrugged it off; he shouldn't be comparing his childhood to that of the Stark heir. 

Clint wasn't envious of Hadley, though. He hated being the center of attention, and it seemed Stark's need to be just that—the center of attention—had been passed unto his child, who was giggling joyfully in glee. Tony stood by her, encouraging her as Hadley's stubby fingers tore the starry wrapping paper apart to reveal presents that received exuberant reactions of no alike. It was easy being a child, easy being selfish and rewarded with exactly what you wanted, Clint bitterly thought. 

It took no genius to see that he was a fish out of water. He recognized little of the people here (most having been invited to fill a crowd, Clint suspected, although he knew them all to be genuinely celebrating the girl, as Tony would have invited only those he trusted to celebrate his daughter's first birthday). He'd donned the generously provided tuxedo and shaved, but the general receptions were puzzlement and disbelieving unsettlement. He knew better than to take it personal—and even if he did, it was with good reason. He hadn't been fair towards his teammates when he'd left. In fact, he remembered a loud argument with Steve right before leaving; and that had been _Steve_. The others hadn't understood what losing Natasha had meant; sure, they'd lost a teammate, the Black Widow, and Natasha, but he'd lost _Tasha_. Explaining had been pointless. He'd blamed them for not understanding. Today, he knew he'd blame them for not understanding, too, if they were to find out his latest discovery. 

So he played along, attending the girl's birthday party. It had been a while since he'd socialized (his personality seemed to contradict the very definition), and a while since he'd been on American soil. It was good to be home; he couldn't deny that, but it was as if returning to an old dorm with all furniture and personality replaced. He wasn't the joking Hawkeye they'd known. He'd been invited out of courtesy and friendship, not for his mingling and partying skills. 

He skimmed the crowd, taking in the breathtaking gown-wearing woman and handsome men in tuxedos. Men cajoled and laughed, reminiscing; women talked, chatted and spilled secrets; couples snuck away in a corner to dial down the public displays of affection, or danced shyly; whilst the youths wolfed down incredible amounts of food from the equally extravagant and delicious buffet. The smells from the long table were mouthwatering with everything from salmon to roasted chestnuts and barbequed legs of lamb, fish and chips, French fries, sauces to die for, Italian pastas, salads with feta cheese and peanuts, carrot sticks, prawns, spaghetti, meatballs, entrecotes, crackers, garlic bread, omelets, spiced chicken, T-bone steaks, rice dishes, compotes, pancakes, Belgian waffles, cheesecake, muffins, and much more. Clint had been full before he could reach the seemingly distant end of the buffet. He was certain of one thing – Tasha would have loved it. Not just because of the food or the people, or the dancing, but everything, the atmosphere, the attention. _You always looked so much better in the spotlight._

She had once, in a moment of uncertainty and would-be death, confided in him that she loved dancing, any kind. He'd looked at her, perplexed, and inquired when she was able to do it. Being a spy meant sticking to the shadows and remaining unseen (that was what he thought then, anyway). She'd smiled so wistfully and never brought up the topic until he'd, upon surviving, taken her. God, he'd been clumsy; he shouldn't have, but she made him. Few people didn't pale in comparison. She was a natural, so beautiful to look at. The circus had taught him showmanship, and equipped with his bow he could perform wonders and make it look so easy (although it wasn't, hadn't always been) as if everybody could do it. That was his gift and he'd spotted her looking sideways at him when he did it. Circus didn't teach you Nat's kind of grace and elegance, though. 

His mood darkened when he thought of how she'd come to that kind of grace. He liked to think it hadn't been something fostered by her trainers, the child terrorists. He liked to think that whoever Tasha had been before she'd wound up there had been equally talented and graceful. He liked to think those things so that he wouldn't have to wonder what they did to her at the early days of childhood where imprinting was done best. Her training wasn't the first of its kind he'd stumbled across, but it was the first whose ramifications he'd witnessed up-close; the first whose victim he'd cradled at night when its nightmares terrified. 

Clint forced his thoughts to turn brighter, away from the frowning kind that made him look as if he wanted to strangle someone. His grip tightened around the glass and he putted it away, exhaling to control his thought pattern. He was thousand of miles from Natasha; thinking about what had been done to her a long time ago wasn't going to make this party any easier. 

He was Clint Barton, enigmatic sniper of S.I.D. and at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s continuous disposal. He had contemplated demanding a retainer fee, but knew that no matter how much he'd grown to tolerate and even, sometimes, appreciate S.I.D., he'd always be considered one of their assets by S.H.I.E.L.D. You didn't get to do what Clint had done and walk away as if having repaid the debt to society. He had blood on his hands, innocent blood, and a decade's worth of service in S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't enough—hopefully, would never be enough—to wipe it off. These people knew that, although some pretended not to, overlooking the past transgressions of Clint Barton for an evening of pleasant conversation and the celebration of Hadley Stark's first birthday. 

Clint had heard about it in the news, of course; the birth of an heir to the Stark empire had made the media abuzz with stories. It mattered less who the mother was—he'd wondered if the late Maria Stark had been as overlooked in the days following Anthony Stark's birth—and more if the babe had shown the brilliance of her father. Obviously it was more than that; stock and shareholders discussed the impact, board members were interviewed, staffers talked openly of what changes had to occur. Nobody had expected Stark to start a family and have children, possibly due to his former womanizing and antisocial ways, least of all after Afghanistan and Iron Man. Clint had been in a pub in Ireland tracking a target when he'd seen it on the news. It was a nice thought: that even superheroes and renounced villains could get a second chance at family, at peace. If Tony Stark could get the happy ending, maybe Clint's eventual happiness wasn't so farfetched. 

He shook his head. At one point in time, he might have believed that he and Stark wanted the same thing. Clint had accepted a long time ago after a heated argument with his then-girlfriend that he wasn't going to be a father. At that point he'd been afraid he'd become an abusive shit like his father; now, the reasons piled up. Sure, other agents in S.H.I.E.L.D. had families and he envied them for it, but he wasn't about to put a child through the nightmare of having to wonder if its father would return, or having to lie when the inevitable question about what he did for a living came up. Plus, he could never put a civilian through that, and hardly picture himself starting a family with one. Once he'd dreamed of beginning something that could spawn something like that—God, he'd been _naïve_ —but the tough ways of life had changed that. No, Clint didn't want the illusion or the real deal. He wanted to have someone to return to who would never judge him for what he did, question the motives of his organization, or ask when he'd be home. He was too messed up for that sort of games. 

Real people got to play house and picket fence; shades like Clint and Natasha got to face the real problems of the world. Once that had meant having each other's backs. Now, he wasn't sure what it meant. He'd been one breath from panicking when Fury had called him to his office. That man had an eye, so to speak, for reading intentions and minds. He was the badass spy of spies. Clint understood his curiosity regarding the invitation. Normally, he'd have turned it down in "a semi-polite way" if it wouldn't mean offending the world's richest know-it-all and alerting Fury to his antisocial patterns—who was he kidding? It was pretty obvious. Another reason why he'd embraced the chance to travel to America had been the need to get away from Europe and see the situation with Natasha with new eyes. That was his style; he saw better from a distance. 

"Agent Barton!" someone called out. 

Clint spun around in the direction of the feminine voice and connected it to the woman wearing what was blue dress that probably cost more than Clint earned in a month. It suited her rosy cheeks and strawberry blonde hair, even her swollen belly. 

"Miss Potts," he greeted, forcing a semi-genuine smile, as she walked up to him. He had nothing against the perky CEO and even admired her patience. She had single-handedly housetrained Stark from what he'd gathered from Natasha and stood by him through hell and fire and engulfing viruses. Plus, it took guts to marry Tony Stark; guts that she evidently had. "Congratulations," he added and gave her his best sheepish smile. 

"Missus," she corrected with a smile that carried no blame. "But call me Pepper, please. Or Virginia, although I can't promise I'll respond to it." 

"Pepper then," Clint replied. Most people didn't give the strawberry blonde enough credit. She was naïve because she was a civilian, but she was also the woman who daily dealt with fierce executives and vice businessmen. She was diplomatic and pragmatic where Tony was difficult and insensitive. The couple complemented each other nicely. With Hadley turning one year and another one on the way, they were doing a fine job of portraying the American family (granted, neither of them were particularly "normal", but they made pretending seem feasible if not easy). 

Pepper beamed shyly. Clint had no idea how it was possible, but it was cute and endearing, if he'd been into that kind of thing. He wasn't, current paramour in evidence. No, Pepper Potts and Natasha Romanov were both strong women but they had more differences than similarities. Maybe that was why it was Potts whom Stark had chosen—not saying that Clint would have forgiven Stark if he _had_ fancied his partner. Clint had been annoyed in the beginning at having to work with one of Nat's former targets. Sure, he could look the other way, but he'd never had to goddamn _work alongside_ one of them, and a ridiculously rich one of them at that. His concerns had been quickly subsided upon seeing (and being amused by) Stark and Nat's animosity and subsequently Stark's completely ignorant infatuation with Potts. 

"How long?" Clint asked, gesturing towards Pepper's pregnant abdomen. He'd always been shy around Potts, as she tended to react as a civilian (at least until she overcame the shock and turned on what Tony had called 'Potts mode'—others simply called it pragmatic diplomacy—which was definitely a consequence of having been around and forced to deal with Stark for so many years. Clint was still wary, but had found out that underneath his initial reluctance, he actually liked Potts as a person, even if he'd avoided her. 

"I'm almost four months along," she confessed with a blush he knew to be of comfort and not of genuine embarrassment. It took more to unravel someone so well-tuned to the world of business. 

The next question came naturally. "Boy or girl?" 

"Twins, actually," Pepper replied and laughed at his look of incredulousness. She used his moment of recollection to change the tables. "How about you? Are you seeing someone?" 

Clint had forgotten how perceptive the former personal assistant was, or more precisely, how disarming her questions and subtle comments were, although if by intent or mistake was debatable. He actually stiffened in response to that question but was able to shrug it off casually (at least he hoped so). "Not really. I'm not in the superhero business." _Anymore. I never was._

"Not the flamboyant kind, anyway," Pepper said, and he traced a note of resentment in her voice. Clint knew better than to trace its origin. The emotion was gone as soon as it had flared. 

"Don't have the option," he replied indifferently. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't like Hawkeye running around as a vigilante, not one bit. That, coupled with his recent dalliance with Natasha, would validate a termination order for (almost) certain, the almost depending on Coulson and Fury's personal thoughts on the matter and the Council's amount of awareness. "I'm not exactly what you call a people person. No offence," he told her. 

"So people tell me, yet we've had this conversation for three minutes without offending or antagonizing me. It's beating a lot of Tony's records." 

"Tell me, Pepper, why _are_ we having this conversation?" he asked curiously, his paranoia getting the better of him. He knew and yet didn't loathe that she was speaking to him out of some form of pity. He'd made a mark of himself, standing awkwardly by himself by not feigning conversation. He appreciated it, though. She wasn't the worst company he'd had to endure, but she wasn't Tasha, either. 

"Well – Clint – we are conversing because that is what is generally accepted as the thing to do at parties, even birthdays. It's called mingling. I'd thought a man of your training would know that," she said cheekily, managing not to be condescending, a gleam in her eye. There was more to Pepper Potts than what met the eye. "That, and I really needed to sit down and this seemed like a good place," she admitted with a slight groan. 

… And she could be blunt, too, it seemed. He gallantly pulled out the chair he'd been leaning against and offered it with gentlemanly mannerisms. "I might not play well with others at these sort of events, but I can take a pregnant woman's hints." 

Pepper chuckled and gratefully accepted the chair, nursing her back. "This dress is killing me," she confessed. "The dress code was _not_ my idea." 

"St—Tony's?" Clint guessed without needing to. "He has a flair for the extravagant. The wallet for it, too," he noted without resentment. "Your daughter seems to love it, though." 

"Hadley's definitely his daughter," Pepper agreed amusedly, exhaustion tingeing her facial expression. The weight of twins couldn't be easy on the usually slim and slight-framed woman. 

"Let's hope she inherits her mother's understanding nature and patience, then," Clint replied with a smile. It wasn't all Hadley had inherited from the Potts gene pool. Red strands of hair adorned the tiny head in pretty curls. "I have to admit, I almost didn't come." 

Pepper cocked her head to the side. "What changed your mind?" 

"Mostly the opportunity of seeing Fury puzzled by my response. I'm not good at these things. It was always—." … _Natasha's thing._ He trailed off and swallowed. His heart sank, and he could tell the strawberry blonde had realized what he'd been meaning to say, too. After all, she'd made a note of getting to know the woman behind the Natalie Rushman act. He cleared his throat. " _Anyway_. I almost saw genuine shock on the director's face. Scout's honor," he vowed. 

Pepper chuckled at his words and gave him a hearty smile. "Nevertheless, I'm glad you came, Clint." 

"Thanks for the invitation," he said. He didn't mean it, but he was glad for the opportunity to travel home, even if it didn't feel like home anymore. 

"You're welcome. Phil mentioned you did work in Europe," Pepper said, ever the socializing conversationalist. She made it a question although it wasn't. It was strange to hear someone else address Coulson as 'Phil', but Clint couldn't hate the mother-to-be for it. He didn't have the right to be jealous. 

"Yeah," he replied non-committedly. "I'm on loan." 

"Really, is that so?" Pepper continued. 

\- 

_Berlin, Germany_

_Meanwhile_

\- 

By the time she had ascended the stairs to the mezzanine overlooking the private banquet fundraiser, she had already identified three of the allegedly six-man team she was supposed to be (meaning: hired to be) examining. It was her opinion that determined whether or not they would graduate unto riskier Leonum jobs. It was her… insinuation that determined their continual service and contract. From what Natasha had already seen, she doubted the team would be up to the par set for operatives. 

They were legendary thieves, their target group spanning across Europe. They had no name for themselves, but Desta had taken interest in them and voiced a desire to see if they'd be as successful in graduating unto more dangerous and punishable offences. Tonight's crime was sabotage—something which Natasha had specialized in for the past three months when not required to fix botched jobs like Sylvio's. She'd been assigned to them for the past two days, but only tonight would she see their faces, officially being introduced after this game of examinations. They were six—all of whom hoped to graduate, but the odds were lessening with what Natasha witnessed tonight. 

They were not Nikolaevna's only job. An obsessive, now ex, Japanese intelligence officer by the name of Takahashi Masao was snapping at Desta's heels, figuratively speaking. In the beginning it had been a minor annoyance, but Takahashi was getting closer to discovering the impact the Leonum Tarpeius had on Japan's export tendencies and financial decay. Suffice to say, Desta had rung her and she'd flown to Berlin within the hour on a dual mission. Whilst there, he'd added, she might as well make sure that the Leons' Japanese enterprises remained undetected, or at least misinformed. Takhashi had gotten fired from Jōhōhonbu—Japanese defense intelligence—for his frenzied accusations about a group that, according to most law enforcement agencies, did not exist; a myth, really. He had even been diagnosed with a psychotic breakdown, which had helped quieting most of his discoveries, but hard evidence could not be ignored and their contact within the Japanese exporting department could not cover up the private files Takahashi kept. He was paranoid—and perhaps with good reason—but Tarpeius' dispatched operatives were better than that. 

Currently, her group of thieving sextuplets were scattered across the floor of the high-end banquet; a couple of diplomats were present, but not all important to mention by name. Natasha had done a thorough job of making sure who was on the guest list for personal reasons—most of which involved her past with several agencies such as Jōhōhonbu—even if it remained pointless. She had survived a hell lot worse through paranoia, and it was part of what had ensured her survival on numerous occasions. 

Classical jazz played from a live band. The atmosphere, and thus, party might have been labeled cozy if it hadn't been for the six people in amongst the partygoers who'd sworn to Desta that they could kill for him; for Leonum Tarpeius. Tonight was graduation night, and Natasha would be judge and jury and possibly executioner if they got into real trouble. It wasn't to be expected, as the lieutenant who'd briefed the group had assigned them what Natasha's former employers would have called a low profile target. Natasha wasn't supposed to know who the target was, but had come across the person's name when she'd done her background checks. The real trick was to get out of Berlin without alerting the taskforce whose current job was to "locate, identify, and terminate the recent threat to European metropolitan cities". It was naïve, but if they caught a Leon, the threat would grow very real—depending on the operative, obviously. The part-German taskforce was backed by Interpol, who had been growing irascible since the Leipzig incident. Apparently, they didn't like finding Polish college students and dirty cops and felons dead in the streets. 

The sextuplets would make a fine addition to the growing hundreds of organized Leons. Clint had been right in his assessment. It was organized crime, but unlike anything they'd brought down previously. Natasha had always favored the strong and Leonum Tarpeius was like a child with growing pains, few weaknesses, fewer by each day. It was foolish to believe that Desta was its only leader, but equally silly to belittle his importance to the organization. Natasha was no newcomer but kept discovering new things and branches. Desta had entrusted her with recruitment of Leons into a group whose main purpose would be sabotage—the ruthless kind. _Spolia Opima_ , he called it. 'Spoils of war'. As his entrusted courier, it had been easy to use it as guise for the recruitment process. She had been tasked with picking out Leons, those with the best potential, for a new unit. The request had unsettled her momentarily. It was a task she'd performed in Red Room, too, and she had wondered, with hitched breath, if Desta _knew_. He had given no indication. 

Confining the Spolia Opima plans to a compartment in her head, she focused on the task at hand: seeing if this group had potential for Leonum Tarpeius, for following Desta's requests without question. Sure, small uprisings were accepted, but constant rebelliousness and undermining was not. Take Alfredo, for example. He was on the list for the Spoils, too, but he had taken a liking to undermining her but not the orders she relayed from headquarters. It was a fine line he walked, but aside from being an asshole, he was a perfect candidate for Spolia Opima. She'd overlooked their animosity for the sake of Tarpeius and hoped he would do the same. 

If not, well, she had her methods. She wouldn't tattle on him like a scorned child, but she suspected her word weigh more, if only slightly, against Alfredo's, who had been in Vienna for two months and subsequently not met up with Desta the entire time, per Desta's lack of request. She kept Desta informed of Tarpeius' workings and potential weaknesses. He listened and considered her suggestions, not always performing the adjustments if he believed them to be unbeneficial. She never actively tried to bring Tarpeius down, not even given her former allegiances. Sure, she'd been an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., but that did not mean she was above what she was doing. People shouldn't forget where she was spawned, what she was trained for. Docile wasn't a permanent state. She'd never been righteous. She knew the flavors of vengeance and vendettas far better than _justice_.

Justice was something untainted by the desire to see the guilty burn, their life melting away in front of them, succumbing them to a state of sheer insanity and emotional turmoil until there was nothing left to hope for but the begging cries for death. Justice didn't get personal, but vengeance did. Justice was good for the uncompromised, but in today's world, nobody was uncompromised. Justice was a kind idea in an unkind world. There were no saints, only sinners, the people who pretended not to be, and the rare callow people who'd soon be ripped apart by the world of chaos and damnation. 

Suffice to say, Nikolaevna never dealt with the third kind of people. Karolina Koppel might have been one of those, but she hadn't known her for long enough to get a read on her. She pretended not to be bothered by the sonogram she'd found in the student's purse; not to be bothered by what her training her made her. She'd ridden herself of insecurities and doubts, but then Clint had come back. He was like a filthy parasite she wanted nothing but embrace. He threw her off balance and made her do things she didn't want to by simply being him. He made her second-guess _breathing, for fuck's sake!_

She scanned the room once again. A woman wearing a red cocktail dress made a seemingly random touch to a gent in a blue shirt; nothing to be concerned with to the average passerby, but Natasha had been in the game too long not to see the gesture as a subtle message, an update, a voiceless sign. They weren't necessarily bad at such gestures, because the sign was understood and the woman moved on, as if looking for another flirt. The pair was both members of the group along with four other men. The woman was the only female of the group, and maybe that was good. Natasha had spotted the two other men upon entering. They had assessed her and deemed her a non-threat to their objective, which was true, but she was anything but harmless. She wouldn't interrupt their sabotage mission unless they failed. 

It was rather simple. The sextuplets—for the lack of a better term; if they joined Tarpeius, they'd have a moniker bestowed on them instantly, for better or for worse—had been assigned the task of singling out a boasting benefactor to a private intelligence network and disrupt his laptop, and thus, the intel his organization had gathered on Leonum Tarpeius and half a dozen other groups, so that the identity of the perpetrators would remain undisclosed. Also, it never did harm to force debts upon potential allying criminal syndicates. From what Natasha knew about the man, it was a fairly easy mission as he was incredible vain, incredible self-satisfied, boastful, and rather arrogant. He was practically _asking for it_. Question only was, who of the sextuplets would get access to his laptop first? He carried the security flashdrive on his person at all times—a sign of his extreme wealth and influence. 

As she mentioned, he asked for it. Tarpeius hadn't asked the group to kill him, so she didn't pity him much. She only pitied his arrogance. Arrogance got you killed, but so did love. She was uneasy making that statement, taking recent events into considerations. 

_Is this love, Agent Romanov?_

She visibly shivered as she remembered the question. There was no one in her vicinity to notice, though, and for that she was grateful. Loki had hit a nerve with his question, but rules about fraternization had kept the two agents from the prospect of a relationship. Back then, she hadn't been able to, either, but things had changed after New York. Coping with what Loki had done had taught them to appreciate each other, and from there, it had grown. They weren't pretending to be something they were not. They had still been agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., able to compartmentalize emotions when their jobs required them to be. Now… now she wasn't an agent, but something far worse in that equation. They couldn't pretend S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't there like an ominous shadow. 

She swallowed hard. She shouldn't be thinking about this now. She was supposed to be watching the game play out accordingly. She found the blue-clad man approaching the target and sighed in relief, embracing the distraction. _This_ she could deal with. _This_ was tangible, unlike the undefined emotions she had towards Clint. _This_ was something she'd dealt with at the age where other girls still played with dolls and made mud cakes. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?
> 
> In which Clint is invited to lunch, Natasha continues Nikolaevna's Berlin job and Clint proposes an offer to Fury that he may end up regretting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phone Clint's using in this chapter is similar to the one Tony Stark used in Iron Man 2. By 2015-2018, at which point this story takes place, I imagine the technology has been released to the public, or at least, made accessible. This is not a sci-fi story; technology, unless relevant, won't be explored in a detailed manner.

_New York City, New York, United States of America_

He had woken up in a fairly cheap hotel room alone the day after Stark Junior's party by the buzzing from his vibrating smartphone. There were several things about the statement he was content with—one of which was that he didn't have a hammering hangover and that he was unaccompanied. There was only one person he'd want—and trusted—sleeping next to him, and she was on another continent. _Maybe_. He tried not to think about where Natasha's employers could have sent her, and what she could be doing. It seemed too early for such horrors at… 9:26 AM. He grabbed for his phone, fingers sleepily tracing the partially holographic buttons across the glass surface.

"Barton," he grunted unceremoniously. He half expected to hear Rosario telling him to get his ass working, until he remembered that he was in America and didn't need to check in.

"Robin Hood!" the voice on the other end _beamed_ , and Clint rolled his eyes. There was no room for mistakes as to its owner's identity.

"Stark?" he asked in vague disbelief. He honestly had no idea why last night's host would be calling him right now.

"You bet, mister. Look, I know I didn't get to speak much to you last night," Tony Stark began and, to his credit, almost sounded genuinely apologetic. "Me and the guys thought that maybe you'd join us for, eh, early lunch?"

Clint hadn't expected that. "The guys?" he asked sleepily, uncertain about whom Stark was referring to. It was best to be certain when Stark was involved.

"Yeah, the old gang. Me, Steve, Bruce, and Peter, if that's okay," Stark revealed reluctantly. It had been too many years for Clint to call him 'Tony' again; hell, it had taken time the first time. He had been—and was—accustomed to referring to and addressing people by surname at S.H.I.E.L.D. so befriending the other Avengers and being asked to call them by their first names had been beyond what he called an oddity. He wasn't planning to stick around long enough for it to get comfortable this time. That was one of the reasons he'd booked a cheap hotel instead of housing himself in one of Stark's for-that-purpose-owned hotels.

Clint still felt bad for his behavior towards them the past five years; it hadn't been their fault, and his anger had been misdirected. But he wasn't big on ceremonial apologies. "Sure, why not."

"Great!" Stark chirped, his voice laced with mischief.

"Stark, no surprises," Clint warned. From what he'd witnessed yesterday, Tony had changed, but that didn't mean his entire personality had been replaced. Back in the day, Stark had been their resident trickster, and he hadn't changed in that capacity.

"Don't be a bore," Stark whined, then sighed dramatically. " _Fine_. But I decide the meeting place," he bargained.

Clint saw plenty of opportunities on Stark's part to twist his words but relented. "Sure."

"Fantastic, I'll see you in an hour in the lobby…" the millionaire said as if he hadn't just yesterday hosted his firstborn child's birthday party, the grandest the hall had seen in a while, and probably the best-financed, too.

Clint calculated the amount of time it'd take to get to the Avengers Tower, conveniently located where it always had been. It seemed as if some things had remained the same, even if it now housed dozens of superheroes. "Okay."

"We'll see you," Stark said, having learned the proper way to end a phone call in lieu of simply hanging up, as he'd done in the days before Natasha and Clint had left respectively. Clint suspected Pepper and Steve had something to do with it, as manners rarely taught themselves, let alone imposed themselves on the genius.

"I'll be there."

Now everything he needed to do was convince the people who'd known him best that he was totally uncompromised and that he hadn't stumbled across and entered a questionable relationship with Natasha.

\- 

_Berlin, Germany_

\- 

"Tell me this is a joke," the man said in vast disbelief, his eyes angrily searching Natasha's body as if he was expecting her to don the appearance of a three hundred pound man with sweaty armpits.

Natasha gritted her teeth. She'd just saved their asses from getting shot to pieces by the (granted, stealthy) undercover syndicate member who would have busted them mid-sabotage. The goon had been an unknown factor she would normally have let the sextuplets deal with on their own—reality was like that, unpredictable—but they had already had the taste of victory on their tongues, dazzled by its intoxicating presence, that they would have been dead on the ground by the time she could congratulate them on their success and demoralize them for their utter mistakes. They had impressed her with their cunning and subtlety. One hadn't watched the door as he'd been told, and the goon had slipped in, tracing their escape route to the rendezvous point.

The goon had had a knife and been good with it, too.

Not good enough, Natasha thought wryly as she stepped over his body. She no longer had the option of whispering a seductively spiteful and frightening message in his ear, but his dead body would be enough of a message to his syndicate. She'd become quite good at communicating that way since her vocal cords became damaged. Her satin cocktail dress became soaked by blood at its hem, her suede boots darkening with crimson moisture. The neckline of the dress was covered by lacey veil, so for all intents and purposes, she was identity-less, just like the lieutenant, Smiley, who'd briefed them beforehand. He'd said nothing but warnings about their examiner, but then again, Smiley had gotten his nickname because of the smiles he liked to carve on his victims. He'd offered to adorn Natasha, too, but she'd declined and suspected it had been an honorary offer.

_Fools_ , the whole lot. Well, maybe she was being rash. The man currently questioning her—and demeaning her—pissed her off slightly, along with the man who'd made the mistake of ignoring his task, nearly costing the lives of potentially three of his crewmates. She forced herself to betray no emotion, slipping into the nameless auditor she was supposed to be.

'Your names?' she demanded, not really wanting to continue the useless work with the notepad, which had resulted in the man's impatience as well.

The man blinked and fumed, but a smaller man, more slimly built, stepped forward, putting a warning hand on his friend's arm, guiding him back and urging him to reconsider his physical aggression. "She's asking for our names, Monteverde."

Natasha tilted her head slightly to the side, stuck between curious and impressed. 'You read lips,' she stated.

"My sister was deaf," he said, his hands beginning to sign. At least he didn't outright ask her the question— _are you deaf, too?_ She kept her eyes levelly on his face for an answer, but she could have read his lips, too. She wasn't going to answer, but it seemed he wasn't going to ask. "She taught me," he added, but his eyes seemed to have an entirely different conversation. "I'm Caesar."

Natasha's eyes left him and traveled the crowd, sans the dead syndicate member. Eventually they remembered their names, even if she didn't offer her own. Her ominous presence seemed to indicate whom she belonged to. Offering a name at this point would be futile.

"Bennet," the blond man who'd been standing next to Caesar said. His eyes traveled expectantly to the man they'd called Monteverde, the one who hadn't been satisfied with having a mute female assassin save him.

"Monteverde," he grunted curtly.

"Patrik," the one who wore the blue shirt said with a slight Scandinavian accent—Norwegian, perhaps? His bright gray eyes inevitably locked with the woman's.

"Vita," she said reluctantly, equally as skeptic as Monteverde. Skeptic was good, difficult wasn't. She eyed Monteverde. Was she as skeptic towards Monteverde's actions, or was she looking for support?

"You'll call me Saffel," the last man said, and received wide looks of disbelief from the others. Evidently, his name wasn't Saffel, but her name wasn't Nikolaevna, so she didn't blame him for not entrusting her with his real name. She recognized the tattoo that adorned his neck, one that had seen no parlor. He was a former Spanish gang member. He was also the one whose job it had been to watch the door.

'Well, now where that is solved, let's get onto business. You succeeded partially. The real trouble will be getting out of Berlin,' she said, making sure her lips were visible to Caesar. He relayed the message without any additions, rephrasing only slightly.

"Trouble?" Saffel repeated arrogantly, _tsk_ ing. "Lady, you haven't seen our getaways. We're good _and_ swift."

Natasha remained unimpressed. Although it was summertime, Interpol still searched fervently for groups of departing people in airports and major train stations since Leipzig. 'Not so fast, hotshot. You haven't passed yet.'

She took off her blank mask for a second, grinning a feral grin. Saffel paled slightly and gulped, but tried to cover his momentary fright. He reminded her of Spinner, but just a little bit. He'd gotten in line, too. It was her job to get them to safety. They had passed the test somewhat, and Tarpeius was always in need of eager hands.

She addressed the woman, who was the last she'd seen with the target. 'Is Jäger alive?'

Vita nodded unsurely. "Wasn't he supposed to be?" Her eyes darted to Monteverde.

Natasha felt like sighing. 'Is he aware his things have been corrupted?'

"No," the man called Bennet said. "I made sure he won't know it until daybreak. _If_ he finds the virus before it consumes and incinerates his skydrive."

Ah, so Bennet was their tech. Not that the information changed much. If he couldn't keep up, she'd leave him to the German authorities that would be on their tails in minutes upon finding the dead man's body. She hated herself for complicating things, but she didn't dwell on would-bes and what-ifs. 'Good. Let's go.'

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell us who you are, lady," Monteverde stated defiantly. Vita had joined him, but Bennet, Saffel, and Caesar remained fairly docile. Patrik looked confused.

'They call me the Lioness,' Natasha merely said, adopting one of half a dozen monikers she'd been bestowed. Alfredo's "Russia" wouldn't get her anywhere with this group, but she saw recognition flash across their faces. 'You will, too. Once I get you out of Berlin.'

Monteverde didn't look too pleased, but he had enough sense to drop his criticism— _somewhat_. "They sent _you?_ A mute?"

Natasha wished looks _could_ kill, but if she'd allowed herself to be irritated every time Alfredo had thrown a comment about her disability, she wouldn't have lasted as long as she had in Tarpeius. Her eyed landed ruthlessly intense on Monteverde. 'Yes. Do we have a problem?'

"Are you going to be our contact?" Vita asked. She suddenly looked a whole lot less beautiful in that dress than she'd done an hour ago. Maybe it was the cold wind of the back alley. Her hair no longer looked like ringlets of silk. Maybe it was because people generally didn't look beautiful up close when pissed.

Natasha shrugged. It was hard to define the inner arrangements, interaction and relationships of the Leons, and they didn't have time for a lecture. Most likely, they wouldn't have to deal with her again. 'No.'

The reply made Monteverde relent, or at least temporarily cooperate. She made a mental note of that knowledge. Patrik stepped forward. "The other one said we'd be tested. Will this be a test, too?"

'Not a graded one,' she admitted. 'But yes, everything you do from here will be watched and passed judgment on.'

Patrik seemed the most innocent of the lot, but world-weary, too. It seemed contradictory, but she could see him as a future Leon or as a baker's assistant. His past was not for her to question, but he still had the option of backing out. _You don't know what you're getting into, son. Not really_. He looked like an innocent bystander and not a mastermind. It was the trickiest.

Yet the sextuplets, however different, followed her as she weaved through the darkness to liberate a car that could hold them all. She did not want to separate them while they still posed a threat, especially not put Vita and Monteverde together without supervision. They seemed like flaky types. Patrik seemed so easily convinced that she wanted him close. Saffel had his words, but ultimately he wanted to be a part of Tarpeius and feared the punishment his mistake would issue.

She knew the perfect place to take them, and so she headed for the city of Schwedt once they'd purloined a van, the hand not holding the steering wheel throbbing from the cut of the blade. She almost looked forward to seeing their host for the night.

\- 

_Café Oliver, Manhattan, New York_

\- 

"… and we haven't seen him in a while," Steve finished, looking momentarily dejected. Clint noticed the others were wearing similar expressions—for the first time during the get-together—but thawed fairly quickly, seemingly having accepted Thor's absence upon receiving no word from Thor's homeworld, hoping they'd be told if something bad had happened to the mighty thunderer.

From what Clint had gathered during the past hour of surprisingly enjoyable lunch and company, his former teammates carried no resentment towards Clint, not even Stark, who tended to be blunt with his personal feelings, regardless of the collectively assumed opinion. With the exception of Thor's unexplained and prolonged absence and lack of communication, they all seemed to have thrived during Clint's venture in black ops and assignment to S.I.D.

Bruce was a prominent and frequent speaker for a campaign on environmental changes and eco-friendliness, and what could be done to decelerate the polar melting, now plural, and other consequences of global warming. He'd called a truce with the Other Guy and given a new meaning to the phrase "going green". He had also established several small centers for teenaged and grown mutants—or, as he called them, "genetic minorities"—where the volunteer patients dealt with anger _triggered_ issues. He still worked in physics, but his research was limited and focused on medicinal and medical usages of the regenerative aspect of his condition.

Steve Rogers, a beacon of American patriotism in his star-spangled outfit, voluntary or not, had finally adjusted to the twenty-first century, as much as someone born in the 1920s and laid in ice for seventy years could, anyway. He was currently dating a historian who had briefly acted as a war correspondent in the Helmand region. From what Clint understood from the subtle (okay, not-so subtle, at times) prodding from Tony, they had been dating for a while, as he hinted towards marital engagements for the couple in the near future. Steve blushed and dodged the question, explaining that he and Meredith were taking things slow and that was fine for the both of them. "Fine, _suuure_ ," Stark had said with a grunt that belied his words, but after a not-so random bump from Bruce and an accompanying glare, he'd gotten unto more casual manners. Aside from his personal relationships, Steve was currently leading the main team of Avengers, there being three, although one was shared, sourly, with S.H.I.E.L.D., to Clint's surprise. Steve participated in battles, as often as was required of him, but often he had to resort to one team when fighting occurred simultaneously.

Stark's tag-along turned out to be mostly _Bruce_ 's tag-along; not that Clint had anything against the grown Spiderman, but Peter Parker, his subtler alter ego, had recently accepted a job at one of Bruce's centers, photographically chronicling the kids' developments and telling about his own experiences with the radioactive spider. Parker had been a recent addition to the team—more like a ward, really—when Clint had left. His offhanded and repeated mention of spiders reminded Clint of Natasha's codename, and he had to conceal his sudden downheartedness and feeling of homesickness. Had Europe and its many cities really become home? A place to miss, sure—more like places—but something that invoked homesickness? _It's her you're missing, you idiot._

"What about Jane Foster?" Clint asked curiously. Last time he'd heard—which, granted, had been a while—Thor and the attractive astrophysicist had been an item. "Does she know about…?"

Bruce took the word. "Dr. Foster has been in Greenland the past two months documenting spectra and readings for her theoretical and factual work on the Einstein-Rosen bridges," he stated. "She doesn't know."

"What you're hearing is the sound of him trying to say they were _off—again_ ," Stark clarified. "Foster grabbed her gear and that lab assistant of hers and skedaddled out of America as fast as wings could take her."

"Darcy?" Clint's mood lit up at the mental image of the perky college student in an anorak, growling at polar bears that looked at her iPod the wrong way. "She's still with Jane?"

"Miss Lewis was one of the conditions in Foster's contract," Stark admitted, receiving gazes. "What! She _is_ brilliant, and if all she wants is some space and a peppy assistant, who am I to deny her that? I saw a situation and I handled it."

It shouldn't come as a surprise that Stark had hired the astrophysicist and financed Foster's research. He did always have soft spot for scientific minds, as evidenced by his strong friendship to Bruce, regardless of his former anger management issues. What _did_ surprise Clint was that Darcy had accepted the harsh, cold environment of the Arctic zone. Then again, those girls had witnessed—and been through—unimaginable events, and coped well, too, when taking into consideration that they were civilians; tough-as-nails civilians, but not trained agents or adequately gifted superheroes. Jane's relationship to Thor hadn't been one that Clint would have anticipated failing. Thor adored and loved Jane—what had gone wrong? Seemingly, things hadn't been as easy as they'd appeared to be. Then again—dating a Norse god wasn't exactly on Clint's resume. Having him commune between realms couldn't give a steady long-distance relationship. Thor's devotion to his duties had perhaps been too great for the previously doting woman.

"We thought it better not to inform her," Steve said awkwardly, and it surprised Clint because he'd always been the advocate for truths. "Considering we only know what we don't know. Until we've received confirmation, he's simply gone as he always is when he's in Asgard."

"You mean, telling her won't make a difference," Clint supplied. He understood their approach (or lack of), but if it had been he and Tasha, he'd have wanted to know. He'd have wanted to know the moment they lost contact.

"Asgard has never been communicative," Parker supplied. "Until Jane Foster's thesis works, we can't go there to see for ourselves. We're relying on their word."

_You can't change inevitable, Clint. It's still going to happen, but relying on its happenstance is like giving up, like taking the batteries out of a toy_ , a voice said. He remembered the conversation and had to look down to gather his thoughts.

_Don't give up on us._

\- 

_S.H.I.E.L.D. Landside Headquarters_

_Undisclosed location in the state of New York_

\- 

The sun was setting over New York by the time both men met, one having requested the meeting, the other having allowed himself to be summoned out of a tedious meeting with underlings to see why his presence had been requested.

"Agent Barton. I'd say always a pleasure, but it's not, so let's skip the pleasantries," Director Fury said, eye landing on the blond in front of him. "What are you here for?"

They looked at each other's faces from across the desk, wearing stern masks. "Extension of my Europe assignment, sir," Clint informed him.

The one-eyed director raised a single skeptic brow at the suggestion. "You want to stay with S.I.D.?"

They both knew the assignment had been a joke in the first place—a way to punish Barton for his constant insolence and a way to relieve S.H.I.E.L.D.'s junior agents from the semi-constant and ever-looming threat of harm. "I feel I've really blended in," he lied, citing the standard load. He couldn't keep the smirk out of his voice.

"Bullshit. They dislike you every bit as much as people here dislike you. 'Cept for this Agent Rosario. He seems to think you're worth the trouble."

"Trouble, sir?" Barton said with feigned naiveté. He was aware that his record for the last year was cleaner than it had been in a while, free of stupid stunts and insubordination. Remove the authority, you remove the problem, it seemed. He wasn't about to share that thesis with the proclaimed problem in question, though. No, S.I.D. had taught him compliance.

"You're a pain in the ass, Barton. You've always been," Fury said bluntly, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose.

_Yet I've always been useful to you_ , Clint thought. _Useful until I brought too much trouble. Is that what Tasha discovered, too? Did you scare her off, Fury?_ He kept the thoughts to himself, letting none of the suspicion flash across his face. Expressing hostility towards the director himself wouldn't result in anything he wanted. No, he realized. He just wanted to go back to Europe, to the fairly easy ways of the sometimes two-man team he and Alejo had been. "I've found working with Agent Rosario to be recommendable."

Fury gave him a look of disbelief as he snorted. "He bat-shit crazy, too?" he asked rhetorically, because he continued when Clint opened his mouth to speak. "Barton, I'm not gonna lie. You're a damn good agent, but you've got _issues_."

He left it at that although they both knew that it was Natasha he spoke of. "That doesn't mean the first statement should be ignored. I read your report on the brief stunt you did on Leonum Tarpeius, our _friendly_ European group of organized goons," Fury said, his voice sarcastic.

"Vienna, if I recall, sir," Clint added, trying to be disinterested as if nothing of importance happened on that mission. _Not—at—all._ "None of the targets showed."

"Nevertheless it was good intel. You wrote that we'd underestimated them in our assessment. _Why?_ " he demanded to know.

_Because they've got Natasha Romanov, sir_. He didn't say that. Damn, this was bordering on insubordination and half-truths. "A… gut feeling, sir. They outnumber our estimation of members. An AISE agent was found tortured to death in the same lair. If the Italians got their noses in Austria, enough to issue a threat, maybe we should be worried."

Fury looked semi-satisfied with his explanation. "Would you be willing to pursue a confirmation of your 'gut feeling'?"

Was he? It'd mean directly working against Natasha—something he'd already failed at. It could also mean obtaining a chance of bringing her in as a contact, an informant. Her cooperation could grant her a pardon. S.H.I.E.L.D. had done it before. It'd mean being part of her everyday life. It'd mean lying to her if she didn't want to do that.

_Don't give up on us._

"I'd like to try," he finally said, hardening his eyes and straightening his back, folding his hands behind his spine.

"Something tells me when you've got your eye on something, Barton, you don't just ' _try_ '. You _succeed_ , and I want you to. That something—it's called experience. You've got loads of it. Now show me you haven't corroded during your European vacation. If the Leonum Tarpeius are as dangerous as you say they are, I want your eyes on it. Yours, and that handler of yours."

"Agent Alejandro Rosario," Clint supplied. It felt weird saying his whole name. He'd always just been Rosario, or Alejo, and rarely "Rosie". That moniker had not boded well.

"Yeah, I remember. I'll have your orders waiting for you by the time you're back in Riga," Fury promised. "And, uh, Barton?" he called out as the conversation was ceasing.

"Yes, sir?" he replied, hoping to keep the strain of panic out of his voice.

"Hope you enjoyed Hadley Stark's party," he said offhandedly, but the archer knew him better than to assign the tone 'offhanded'. Fury, unless put in a chaotic situation, chose each word carefully, based on assessment he'd made in his head. He said nothing without reason to. Problem was finding out what he was fishing for.

The knot in his chest loosened somewhat, but it still stung, the pain of near-discovery panic. "I did, sir."

"Feel any twisting sensation in your gut to have one of your own?" Fury asked, only half, Clint suspected, kidding.

Clint swallowed, believing himself to have found Fury's insightful response. "Kids are not my style, director."

"Somehow, I knew that. Dismissed, agent."

Clint's legs felt wobblier with each step, but he made it out of the office and into the elevator before exhaling deeply. What had he just done?


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?
> 
> In which Natasha invites herself over at a friend's mansion and copes with responsibilities in addition to her personal feelings towards Clint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to point out that any possible offensive words used to describe the character(s) in this chapter are planted upon the character(s) themselves and not based on personal opinion. I try not to be offensive.

_Schwedt, Germany – near the Polish border_

_\- Later that same night_

\- 

It was way into the night when the stolen van's tires screeched to a halt in front of the ill-omened gates of the remote mansion in the middle of German woodlands. Mostly German, but some bordered with Polish sown trees. Natasha's eyelids felt like heavy drapes, but she leaned forward in her seat anyway and gazed upon the old fortress with its dim lights, enough so to issue the vision of the starry night above. At 2:06 AM, it wasn't particularly astonishing as it was imposing, but the promise of a shower and a safe haven for the night caused her to set aside any doubts she had as to the mansion's qualities. Most important was the fact that there were less than ten miles to the Polish border, and that the German authorities would not search for them here.

She looked over her shoulder to check up on her passengers. Aside from Patrik, whom she had sitting next to her, drooling on his own shoulder, they all sat in the back. After half an hour's travel, nobody had uttered a word and they had driven in comfortable silence. Monteverde's physical presence had seemed to calm Vita, who was sleeping lightly in his arms. Bennet was glancing at Saffel, who had busied himself playing with a lighter while Caesar slept, seemingly undisturbed. When the van rolled to a halt in front of the gates, all but two looked up.

"Where are we?" Patrik inquired sleepily. She ignored him, scrolling the window down to press on the intercom button of the gate.

"Wer ist an der Pforte? _Who is at the gate?_ " a male asked, first in German, then in slurred English. Despite the annoyance of his tone, Natasha knew that she had not jerked him from his bed, but rather from good company.

She waited, knowing silence would be telling, unable to keep a smirk from entering her features. She tapped the door in impatience, a familiar language of sounds. Morse code. _S…C…H…W…E…S…T…E…R…_

The others looked at her as if she was mad. "Aren't you going to—," Saffel started, but then the gate swung open and the intercom chirped.

"Welcome, _sister_ ," the voice greeted, tension evaporated and purely mischievous. The sudden change of language alerted the sextuplets, yet they only eyed each other strangely when Natasha drove through the open gates into the proverbial lion's den.

Upon driving for three more minutes, the dirt road ended—much to the van's relief, as it was adequate for asphalt maneuvers, but not off-road travel—and she saw the barn-like design of the garage where their host kept all of his cars, ranging from Rolls Royces and Aston Martins, to a Humvee and a cheap Honda. She pulled up and heard the tires crunch across gravel.

Natasha parked the van without incident or regard to its angle, knowing it would be taking care of and discarded during the night. She then proceeded to step out of the car, enjoying having steady ground under her feet and the opportunity to stretch her legs. Eventually, the sextuplets followed suit, even Vita and Caesar, the former of which was leaning against Monteverde, and the latter of which looked like he knew exactly what was going on.

She gestured for them to follow. "Where are we?" Bennet asked, looking up at the Stuart era castle, which had later been purchased and turned into a private mansion, restored, demolished and renovated to its owners' desires. It was fairly modest now—compared to who owned it, anyway—and it laid so secluded that it would offer the perfect hideout in the cover of darkness. The projector beams that usually lit up historical monuments like this had been shut off, probably to piss off people who used it as a landmark for aerial grid logging. Natasha had to smile. She also had to cringe, because her forearm had turned an unhealthy color as blood had ceased flowing freely from the wound.

It was too dark for her lips to be read, the moon hidden behind a line of tall trees. She made no attempt to answer Bennet's question as she trekked to the main door entrance of the nearest house. They were former stables for noble steeds with pedigrees that went back further than hers, now repurposed. She walked stiffly, feigning sleepiness. When she knocked upon the wooden door, half of her company was still clumsily making their way across the gravel field.

She did not have to wait long. The door opened with a heavy sound and light beamed through, piercing the adjoining darkness like an angelic halo. " _Nikolaevna._ I wasn't expecting your company, but it is nonetheless happily welcomed," Kraus said, stressing the adverb and pushing the door open. "You bring friends," he commented dryly.

Natasha didn't answer him, simply entering without further ado, struggling to conceal her injury. It'd heal within a matter of days if tended properly to. She could smell it, smell the foul stench of dry blood and settling infections. She betted the knife hadn't been clean and cursed mentally. She tried to bend the wrist slightly and was surprised by the wave of pain it sent through the joint. She bit her lip and awaited privacy.

By the time the sextuplets had joined her in one of the richly furnished living rooms, the logs in the fire cackling homely, she was leaning against one of the cushioned chairs that looked like it belonged in the last century. It probably was the antiquity it appeared to be, knowing Kraus' tastes for overindulgence.

'We will stay here for the night. Tomorrow, we will head across the Polish border. In Szczecin there is a Leon who will manufacture new travel papers for you. From there, you'll split into groups of two and head for different bases,' she told them while Kraus watched. She trusted the dark-haired man with the small curls that stuck greasily to his head due to too much product and low lighting; trusted him not to sell them out. His brownish-orange eyes gleamed like orbs of expensive cognac and observed the instructions with disinterest, more interested in her passengers than their inconsequential information.

"I will find accommodations for all of you, you needn't worry," he supplied. Natasha, having seen the vast mansion's assortment of rooms, knew it to be true.

"Why wait? Why not head across the border tonight?" Saffel asked, eyes suspicious and darting between Natasha and Kraus. He seemed like the guy to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"These woods are treacherous at night, my new guest. Tragedies have been known to befall those who journey through it during nighttime, especially when the moon is as coy with us as she is tonight," Kraus informed him, ever one for dramatic flair. It was true that the woods weren't best ventured by night, but if Kraus' stories were true, werewolves, monstrous beasts and ravenous boars roamed the adjacent forest. Natasha had snorted in disbelief upon hearing them.

Kraus' eyes landed predatorily on the pretty Bennet and the statuesque Vita, and Natasha fretted. They were in her care, and paranoid as they may be, they wouldn't see the personal threat Kraus posed.

Kraus wasn't a creep. Well, maybe he was, but at least he was honest in his perversion, which made him a far better man in Natasha's book than most gave him credit for. His hands accidentally groped his guests and he was a queer for making inappropriate suggestions and invitations, but he was never truly serious about his offer if one had declined. He loved Natasha for playing along and he considered her, at least according to his boastful self, one of his best friends, although she suspected he liked his playmates better. "Not always," he'd said, "they disappoint. You never do." Natasha sated the dandy, listened when he whined and complained, willing to pretend with him when he'd scared off the rest. What he lacked in companions, he made up for with money. He came from old money and was filthy rich. One parent—his father she presumed—had vowed to disinherit him, but had died leaving him a generous amount, and the other had sent him off with an equally generous portion of money to ensure he didn't embarrass her or her reputation with his "freakish tendencies". The only attribute that phrase had described had been Kraus' early but nevertheless disapproved-of pansexual appetite. Resentful and dramatic, he'd made sure there was something to be embarrassed about, and he made it a sport to purposefully make people blush when they heard of his improper activities.

He was also a benefactor to Leonum Tarpeius, for reasons that were more than just the obvious. As any rich man was inclined to be, Kraus' faith in authority figures was ever-diminishing. He was one of obviously more benefactors, but Desta had always been grateful for his donations in particular and oftentimes sent Natasha to voice his appreciations. Natasha, accustomed to odd fetishes and having no qualms at being passed around, had gone along—not that she cam near to having Kraus' amount of lovers. However, Kraus had seen an intellectual partner in her and not a merely sexual one, although he still seemed plenty of interested on that part. She'd refrained from sleeping with him the past three visits. Still, it seemed, he welcomed her happily and unhesitantly.

'We will all welcome some sleep. What rooms are available?' Natasha asked, the last comment aimed at her host. She herself would not be getting much sleep tonight, but traveling with a cranky Monteverde was not on her list of things she did with pleasure.

"Eastern wing should provide plenty of space. I'll escort you there myself," the dandy offered, sending Natasha a questioning glance as he hurried them along like a hen mother. They followed—mostly, Natasha suspected, out of the promise of a clean bed and warm shower. Natasha used the temporary privacy to sink into the chair, groaning as she removed her gloves to inspect the wound.

It wasn't a particular deep wound; more of a graze, really, but the skin had been parted, presumably with the dirtied knife the goon had been slashing. The skin surrounding the vertical scar on her inner forearm throbbed and had swelled to nearly twice its usual size. She did not wait for Kraus to finish his tour—place was large enough to house a hundred families, and getting from one wing to another meant wandering dozens of rooms and corridors—but instead knowingly made her way to the nearest sink, which turned out to be one of the dozens of conveniently littered bathrooms, its tiles from an era before she was born. She appropriated the towel that hung by it and liberated a bottle of straight vodka from the expensive shelf in Kraus' liquor cabinet. She knew him to be able to afford a replacement, so she uncapped the bottle without remorse and poured it directly on the wound. The sting brought tears to her eyes, which she promptly ignored. She repeated the action twice before she began to clean the wound more delicately, hissing occasionally.

She heard the footsteps behind her as he entered. "Will there ever going to be a time where you do not come to me out of necessity, but desire, un-battered?" He sighed at the obvious answer and put the universal first-aid kit down next to her. "Let me see."

She shook her head fervently. He looked at her in simple disbelief.

"No? But we've shared so much in the past," he pointed out with a suggestive curve to his eyebrow.

'I'm almost done,' she promised, telling the truth. She searched his box for needle and suture. She had already done a thorough assessment of the wound; she'd need stitches.

"One should know that the likes of us are never done," Kraus said, wisely and darkly, with more truth to it than not. He sat down next to her and took the needle from her, threading it before handing it back. "Your hands are shaking."

'My hands are _fine_ ,' she corrected, pissed at being assessed as wounded. Her hands _did_ shake, but damn if she'd let him help.

Kraus backed off, merely watching, as she systematically stitched her own arm with crude but semi-symmetric crisscrosses. He filled the silence willingly. "I trust you heard about Koppel?"

Natasha nodded nonchalantly. She wasn't about to let Kraus know the details of Leipzig; not if Desta hadn't told him. Her silence seemed to carry affirmation. "He was always rather careless, doubtful of our results," the dandy said knowingly as if he'd met the man more than briefly. Natasha, who had no knowledge of how benefactors worked or influenced Tarpeius, allowed his words to count as truth.

She grimaced as the needle dug deeper than intended. 'He got caught and saw a way out. He took a last resort he shouldn't have,' she mentioned cynically. She kept it to herself that she would have done the same, and mustered as much judgment in her expression as possible.

"His betrayal irks you, sister?" Kraus asked.

She shook her head once again. It hadn't been Koppel's betrayal that bothered her; it was Tarpeius' choice of punishment towards his betrayal that had upset her, possible due to her current dalliance with Clint. 'Koppel is dead, what does it matter?’

Kraus recognized her irritation. "You disapprove," he realized. "I know better than to debate with you when you're in such a mood. Tell me about your rewarding adventures."

'There is nothing to tell,' she growled.

"Your injury seems to claim otherwise," he pointed out, letting his eyes travel the treated wound and the uneven stitches. "You'll need ice," he observed.

Natasha shrugged his hands off the arm. It had almost ceasing throbbing. 'Don't fret on my account. It suits you ill.'

"Ah, but you know me, Nikolaevna. I do so terribly fret for what you do so recklessly to yourself. I hate it when you allow unwashable stains to tether your skin," he said needily.

'You want me in your bed, not in your infirmary,' she spat sourly, brooding. She wasn't in a mood for these games, although she usually appreciated his company.

"You wound me," he said, tone belying his words. "Although if you wish to join, I'm sure Reuben wouldn't mind…"

His suggestive words would be the end of her patience one day. It distracted her from her pain, though. 'Keep trying your luck, Kraus.'

"Oh, but my, I'm intrigued, and you know that I don't easily fascinate. What's got your mind so secretive and exhausted, and your legs so tightly twisted?" His voice became sultry, too personal for comfort, too tainted with lustfulness and something savage. "Or should I say, 'who'?"

Kraus rarely became like this, and only if something in his own life were a bother and a nuisance—a difficult lover, perhaps? Kraus shared his bed with many, but only people he deemed interesting enough. Sad for her, that usually meant people with questionable pasts and trust and commitment issues, leaving her to comfort the heartbroken richman. Kraus' lifestyle wasn't about being pansexual, no; he thrived on being different, on being odd and looked sideways at. He enjoyed being labeled a freakshow by society, or representatives thereof—his visitors. He liked to live life to its fullest without worrying about others' prejudices—hence the location.

'Is it Carlos? Ménage, perhaps, since you sent the girl gazes. Who is bringing you trouble?' Natasha pried, half in rebuttal, half in friendly concern.

She hit a sore point because Kraus looked away and the venomous scrutiny was gone from his eyes, replaced by the lost puppy look of heartbreak and unreciprocated love. "You know me too well," he hissed, no spite shining through, resentment only because she knew him well enough to see through his distractions. "It's Jeremy," he sighed exasperatedly.

'Jeremy?' she repeated, unfamiliar with the name. Then again, she didn't make visits to the Schwedt mansion a weekly routine.

Kraus sighed dramatically, making waving gestures. "And Ménage, I suppose. She wants to travel to Milan."

Natasha couldn't see the problem. Ménage was one of the few regular female lovers Kraus kept around, who endured him on a daily basis. Kraus never was particularly possessive, but few people could endure his eccentric behavior when it came to bed manners. 'Then let her go to Milan,' she suggested.

If Kraus was serious in his search for sexual additions, it mean he'd bored of his current ones. If Ménage and this Jeremy guy were bringing him heartache, she'd advise him to let them go. Problem was there was a slight chance all of these troubling scenarios were only occurring in Kraus' head. He liked the chase more than the reward. It was one of the reasons he seemed to be constantly pursuing Natasha and whatever companions she brought with her.

"Ah, you don't get it, sister," he groaned in annoyance. "When have you ever associated sex with the accompanying emotions? That's all it is to you—I've seen it. You play the game, and you might even enjoy it. You pretend well, _Nikolaevna_ , but your heart's not in it. Who are you to understand _ties_?"

For some reason, his words stung, even if they were said in frustration towards his own situation. Normally, she wouldn't have let them soak in, but they hit close to home. She softened her facial expression after a while, giving him time to calm down. 'What about Jeremy? What has he done to anger you like this? To cause you this misery?'

He called her sister in hilarity, but she supposed he was the closest person she'd ever pick as a brother. His father's name, and grandfather's name, had been Nicolay. He'd been amused, and when she hadn't provided him with a first name or a moniker, he'd refrained from giving her one aside from a heartfelt _sister_. They weren't close, and lustful attraction on his part made the relationship close to incestuous, but she supposed it helped in the dark hours of the night where the sole comfort they had was shared between them without (mostly) suggestive comments. If Kraus had any siblings—heirs to the family name—he didn't mention them. He'd found in her a kindred spirit and she supposed Nikolaevna needed Kraus in a strange way.

"He reminds me of you, truly," Kraus admitted softly, playing with his hands, twisting and fisting the digits. The softspokenness made it a compliment. "But he's turned so coy, shying away. He prefers Ménage's bedside to my own these days. I fear I may lose them both if I allow them to travel to Milan," the dandy confided.

It must hurt to be so insecure. She put a comforting hand on his shoulder, and to her surprise, he leaned into her touch like a neglected - but perfectly sociable - cat. 'You cannot keep them as pets, Kraus. Even though they like to pretend,' she sighed wistfully.

For a man who was so deeply involved in organized crime, he seemed so gullible when it came to the matters of love—not for lack of trying. He reminded her of Clint in that way; although he now seemed jaded, based on his reactions. "Either way," Kraus sniffed, trying to compose himself, "someone will resent the other party. They'll resent me for keeping them locked here, and I'll resent them for departing, even if I permit it. Promise me something, sister," he begged woefully in an almost brotherly fashion. "Don't ever fall in love."

'You've never blamed someone for not loving you before,' she stated, watching his eyes carefully. They were a stormy mess, grieving for a love not yet lost, angered at his uselessness in the matter. The statement was true; Kraus had—previously had—no problem taking people to bed, people whose hearts did not belong to him and who might have sought his bed in sheer heartache and young misery.

"I' _m not!_ " Kraus said briskly under his breath, nearly panicking. "They used to love me. They used to be _in love with_ me. Falling out of love is not something I wish on anybody… especially the people whom I take to bed. It's almost as terrible as falling in love!"

'She still loves you,' Natasha concluded, surprised. 'You're complaining that she's not _in love_ with you.'

It wasn't a problem that she'd heard from his mouth previously. Kraus had half a dozen lovers, beloved trophies, people whom he shared generously and loved. He favored some above others, but people who tolerated his eccentric tastes were treasured and well-fed, clothed, and financially supported, their dreams offered due to his wealth and relationship.

'That's awfully selfish of you,' she stated, making sure to frown in disapproval but eventually soften her features. 'I would never demand such omnipresence and devotion.'

Kraus' head shot up, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "You never talk personally. Who's this new guy that's got you comforting me? Normally you'd whack me in the head, kiss me and be done with it, but _no_ —you're almost monogamous. God, who turned you _monogamous_?"

'I never said that,' she denied rapidly. 'I merely said that, if I found myself in your situation, I would be less…'

"…Monogamous?" Kraus suggested. She rolled her eyes.

'Shut up,' she growled. 'Intolerable and selfish.'

"You wound me," he said sarcastically, seemingly having recovered from his own heartaches by distracting himself with hers. Except hers weren't heartaches, no—they _couldn't_ be.

"Being in love is easy. Falling in love and falling out of love are the hardest parts," Kraus offered in advise. Natasha chose to ignore the comment, or rather, who it was aimed at.

'Then why not be content with Ménage's love, and not her infatuation? Most men would appreciate her beauty and intellect,' Natasha pointed out. Ménage resembled her—at least, the person she'd have become, had she not been trained as a spy, seductress, and assassin. Kraus' bed companions weren't all criminals, fewer Leons. Most of his regulars tolerated the criminal behavior occurring around him, though. It was hard not to.

Kraus laughed curtly. "I'm not most men, sister." His thumb and index finger traveled her jawline, until he held it firmly into place, his eyes longingly searching hers for something equal. "I prefer people who intoxicate me," he whispered. "People who'll love and seduce me into an early grave."

'Be careful what you wish for,' she said guardedly.

"Aren't you lovely tonight," Kraus sighed impatiently, giving up. "Why do I even bother housing you all?" he asked rhetorically. "You all leave me witless."

'Us?' she said, feigning personal offense.

"Leons. You come here causing problems, being coy all of you," Kraus whined but without passion. "Sharing my bed and leaving as if I'm some convenient B &B."

Natasha chuckled. His analogy was true; many a times Leons had been advised to seek out Kraus' fortress if they needed to lay low. He was known—within the community, of course—as their professional host, if you didn't mind being shared and paying in sexual or other kinds of favors. Considering Kraus' lack of animosity regarding the oftentimes-inconvenient arrivals, she suspected him to have once extended the offer himself. Leons made wonderful playmates. ‘Who's here?’

Kraus groaned and made impatient gestures. "What's his name—eh, yeah, Eric… something…?" he guessed, memory faulty or too drunk. "Big man, slender, wears fancy hats?"

'You mean the Bastard,' she concluded, astounded at the information. 'He's here?'

"Oh, yes, you people and your nicknames. What does he call you? The wildcat?" Kraus guessed jokingly, almost annoyed at her enthusiasm.

'He calls me Lioness,' she stated simply, defeating Kraus' point. 'There is a limit to my nicknames, Kraus.'

"One day I might believe you. I suspect that'll be the day you tell me your first name," Kraus told her.

'Not all people have names,' she replied sadly. _Natasha_ didn't describe who she was anymore. It might describe the person she was when she was with Clint, but not the person currently sitting across from Kraus.

"I don't believe you," he said with a secretive, knowing smile. "However, it's always been my policy to demand nothing of you, so I won't probe…much."

His mood was improving. 'You asked one of them to stay,' she stated, making it half a question.

"The blonde," Kraus confirmed. "I asked him and he considered. Will Desta get mad?" He battered his eyelashes mischievously.

Losing Bennet to Kraus' bed wouldn't be a terrible loss. 'He's expressed interest in all six, but they may work without him. They will be split either way. I don't see why he cannot stay here. Just…' She hesitated. '… don't be selfish if the day comes where he's summoned elsewhere.'

Kraus knew this. Leons, while good playmates, could easily be taken from him if Desta ordered so. Making attachments to Leons was, in the end, futile. They all served Desta, even Kraus, who was his benefactor. "I know," Kraus said knowingly and the mischief was wiped temporarily from his face, leaving behind a grown man with adult problems.

'If that is all, brother, may I inquire to which room I'll find the Bastard in?' Natasha asked tentatively. Kraus needed his rest, and she needed answers.

Kraus smiled sheepishly and told her, tone free of envy. "I don't see what you see, _sister_. But something tells me I'm better off that way."

She rose from her seat and pecked him on his forehead. _Yes, you're better off this way; heartbroken but of faith._ She was unsure if she had a heart to break, but then she thought of what happened to the Koppels happening to Clint, and she felt a knot tighten in her chest. Loving unconditionally like Kraus meant getting your heart repeatedly broken. Loving someone with a heart like hers…

_Being in love is easy. Falling in love and falling out of love are the hardest parts._ Kraus had it wrong—but then again, he wasn't her. Loving someone unquestionably was just as hard as falling in love all over again upon rediscovery.

_I never stopped, Clint. I merely deceived myself into believing I never did._


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?
> 
> Natasha talks to the Bastard and learns from Desta of the pursuit for her, and Clint, along with Rosario, finds himself on the other side of the hunt, going over Nikolaevna's work in Leipzig. Stressed and finally alone, Natasha succumbs to her worries.

_Interpol Headquarters, Paris, France_

It was following a sleepless night of reading reports that S.I.D. Agent Clint Barton made his way through the mazes of hallways of the large civilian protective service—or, in common tongues, international police agency—unfamiliar with his surroundings, but nevertheless determined. He'd just sat through a partially nauseating briefing with Interpol Agent Leclerc—the agent in charge of the full-blown clandestine investigation of the group known as Leonum Tarpeius, or simply "L.T.". Clint had done his thorough research on the name. Tarpeius was the name of a family in ancient Rome, which had played a part in multiple myths. They were the lions of Tarpeius, but they didn't leave a calling card, no: Leclerc and his agents had had to learn the pattern of their mercenaries.

"Leipzig isn't the first time," Leclerc had admitted sourly, face deep in thought and too burdened for someone only in his late forties. "But it lacks her usual elegance."

"Her?" Clint had asked back in semi-confusion. Leclerc had mentioned no name, but he was getting a feeling that he'd know whom the agent was referring to.

"We've got no name on her, but her work's distinguishable. She's ruthless and swift but not sadistic; I'd even call her talented, as morbid as it sounds… She's experienced and one of the top officers in the organization. She's been with them for over a year—maybe even longer," Leclerc estimated, reciting the profiler's report.

At this point, Rosario—who'd been present but keeping to the background—had asked, eyeing Clint strangely: "Was she in Vienna three and a half week ago?" 

"We can't say. She sometimes travels with company, sometimes alone. She's good at disappearing, even if we manage to tail and track her. Leipzig was hers, though, that's for certain." 

_I've always been good at tracking you, Tasha. It's always been the one thing I was good at besides archery. Never thought it'd come to this._

"Why are you so certain it's her?" Clint had inquired, unsettled by the growing sensation in his gut that this was the work of Natasha. She'd always been all of those things Leclerc said—with the exception of noticeable. 

Leclerc had given him a lecture on styles and bullets that left Clint convinced that, although Leclerc knew all the technical elements that made up Natasha, he'd never come to understand and know how she operated. He had listened, along with his handler, until he hadn't been able to take it anymore. That had coincidentally been when Leclerc had finished his briefing. 

"I don't know what your agency wants with the L.T., but it's always nice to have an extra pair of eyes and hands," the salt-and-pepper-haired man had finished, shaking Clint's hand solemnly. 

From there, Clint had asked to be brought to and see the bodies of the Leipzig killing, which had been transported from where they'd been found. The three bodies that had left Natasha shaken, exhausted, and unable to conceal it. He'd seen her murder a dozen diplomats and their security escorts without missing a beat—emotionally, physically, mentally, professionally, personally. What was so different about these three people? He wanted the answer to be 'because they are people' but knew it wasn't. 

Alejo seemed to have picked up on his solemnness. "What did Fury do to you?" he whispered, almost an incredulous hiss. When he'd received the call from the airport that they were going to pack for Paris, he'd been confused, which had later evolved to disbelief upon hearing Clint's mission orders—and how he'd come by them. 

"Nothing," Clint promised then screwed up his face at the thought. "What makes you think he did anything?" 

"Well, for one thing, he said you _requested_ this meeting. You don't like people, Barton. Why cooperate and play nice with Interpol?" he asked, pointing to the visitor's pass snapped to the pocket of his suit jacket. Its holographic blue glow made his black suit seem navy. 

"Maybe my assessment of L.T. changed things," Clint suggested, although he knew his handler wouldn't fall for it. Maybe it was because Clint didn't want him to. 

"You've got someone," Rosario realized, still whispering. "You think you've got a shot at surpassing Interpol's team and crack this case wide open _because of an informant._ "

"Nonsense. You know as well as I that one person can't change—or ruin, for that matter—an entire criminal syndicate," Clint stated calmly. He had no plans about grandeur. Frankly, he was just going the direction his instincts swayed. 

"Depends on the person," Rosario replied casually. The insinuation was clear. 

"Where's this faith coming from?" the archer inquired suspiciously, glancing at his handler. 

"Your ego, apparently. Look, it's fine that you wanna actually work with people, but allow me to continue being skeptic, okay?" 

"Fine, if that's how you wanna play it," Clint grunted, keeping a smile in check. 

"Oh, and by the way, Lucy's still holding onto your bow for you," Rosario informed him casually, knowing his response, as he pressed the elevator button down to the evidence locker. 

Clint visibly stiffened as he recalled the fact that he'd been separated from his weapon of choice—his self-proclaimed love of his life—for two weeks. He'd appreciated the separation as he'd been tossed in the river, but now experienced a want to have his hands on the beloved bow. He had several, but S.I.D. didn't share his enthusiasm for the weapon and refused to sponsor seconds and spares, making the ones he had even more coveted in his eyes. Lucy, a check-in clerk at the Riga base's shooting range, had been holding his bow captive in his absence. There were only two people who were allowed to check out the beauty—Clint himself, and Rosario by association. 

Clint _whimpered_. Lucy wasn't a believer when it came to the bow Clint had so affectionately named 'Charlotte'. In fact, the idea of her even holding, let alone managing Charlotte made a parental concern emerge forward. "Please tell me she's okay," he begged, squeaking. 

Rosario eyed him strangely. "Lucy or your Precious?" 

As if that was even a question. Clint snorted and shot him a dirty look. "That reference's not worthy of comparison to Charlotte. As much as I hate to say it," he sighed, deeply regretting his decision as he felt a pang of longing surge through him, "she'll have to wait." 

Alejo frowned. If there was one consistent thing about Barton, it was the love to his bow. "Why?" 

"We're going to Leipzig," Clint stated firmly as the elevator pinged and the doors opened. He wasn't about to mention that he'd been in Dresden—two hours from Leipzig, probably warming the bed of the perpetrator—last week. 

\- 

_Schwedt, Germany_

\- 

"Lioness."

The one word made her feel terribly exhausted by its mere pronunciation. Natasha stepped across the threshold and unto the tiles of the luxurious bathroom. She sat down on the edge of the jacuzzi bathtub despite the promise that it would soak her pants. She'd replaced the fancy cocktail dress with a pair of Ménage's borrowed jeans and a universal tank top, leaving her scar visible. Her wavy red hair cascaded down her back despite having been tamed into a messy ponytail, wetting the green top's fabric.

The Bastard, full name eternally forgotten and hardly used, was admittedly a large man, of height, at least. He was muscular, but it was natural and not obtained through endless hours in a gym, bench-pressing his own weight in iron. His size was imposing, but his charm dazzling. He would have been an enforcer in a normal crime syndicate. In Tarpeius, it was merely one of his functions. Currently, he was Kraus' problematic guest, simply by his personal persistence. His gunmetal gray eyes locked unto her form without sexual interest—an unusual reaction to her presence, but she knew the Bastard wouldn't touch her with an iron poker (which was ironic and tragic more than it was sad).

His bubble bath had enough bubbles for them to remain professional. Then again, neither of them were prudes. Her eyes searched his indifferent expression for a reaction. She caved first. 'Why are you here?'

"Maybe I like spas," he replied dryly, sucking on the Cuban cigar like he'd consumed every cliché in the world and didn't care that researchers had proven smoking to be the main cause of lung failure. "Maybe I waited for you."

The second option was most likely, knowing the Bastard's frequent usage by and close-knit companionship to Desta, even if his tone betrayed no favor between the two options. 'Why did he send you?'

"You ask a lot of questions, Lioness. It's not smart," he remarked. It wasn't a warning.

Natasha narrowed her eyes. 'You don't like mind games, so tell me why you're here. Am I going to have an extra person with me tomorrow or are you going to frustrate Kraus further with your troublesome defiance?'

"What's troublesome about it," the Bastard said, offended. "Just because I'm not into orgies…"

'It's the least you can do for him,' she advised. She wasn't about to lecture him on manners and hospitality. It was an unspoken agreement that Desta and Kraus had, a shared understanding about payment. Desta couldn't force his operatives, though, and discourteous Leons like the Bastard, who usually didn't mind, got a free pass, disappointing Kraus. To Natasha, it appeared like he had enough troubles without involving the Bastard.

"I don't owe him anything. He's got enough people in his bed without making additions." The subtext was clear, the question hidden in a curious facial expression. _Did you join him?_

What Natasha could never comprehend was how the Bastard wasn't a lieutenant. At times, he seemed more capable than she did, or Alfredo did. She'd even suggested it herself, but never to the Bastard's face. She knew little about his backstory or how he'd come to have his moniker bestowed upon him. His family was from Kent, and maybe that, along with a childhood spent in Gibraltar, was what had invoked a British accent in him, a false sense of sophistication. He used it to his advantage as often as he could.

'Maybe,' she said, shrugging dismissively. 'None of us are here for his company.'

The Bastard chuckled so that his body and the bubbles quaked below the water. "It's convenient," he admitted, then bluntly added, casually as ever: "Desta sent me to protect you."

'I don't need protection,' she mouthed, sneer on her face.

"You haven't heard, Lioness. Interpol's looking for you—looking like they want you badly. Germany isn't a place to flock for you, not after Leipzig and now Berlin. Desta wanted to ensure you a safe travel. Consider me your newest friend," the Bastard grinned.

'You might not like that arrangement,' she replied darkly. She wasn't a stranger to bodyguards, but in her experience, they always seemed to be ultimately in the way when shit hit the fan. Desta mostly trusted her to look out for herself. It was harder to be overlooked when you were two people.

"I'm like you, Lioness. I do as I'm told by Desta. We're not that different," he explained.

'You'll be accompanying us to Szczecin, then?' she questioned, annoyed with the forced-upon tag-along. People had to know her really well not to be in the way. The Bastard was practically a stranger.

"And after that, too. I'll stay in the back if you wish. I'm not asking us to be friends, Lioness. This is just a job," he assured her with a far more sincere expression on his face. Natasha didn't believe it for a second.

_Look at me; I'm not a threat._

She rose from her seat, crossing her arms. Suddenly the promise of an—empty—bed seemed very appealing. 'What would you have done if I hadn't come by this information?'

The English Bastard chuckled enigmatically. "Kraus is getting good at subtlety when it comes to dropping hints, no?"

'You would have followed me.'

"Yes. Don't pretend you're not to Desta what these puppets here are to Kraus. In another sense of the word, perhaps, but he's as fond of you as Kraus is of his lovers."

Natasha felt like shivering at the truth, but merely swallowed and nodded. 'Let's just get it over with.'

She departed the bathroom feeling a whole more burdened, but could do nothing about it. Few people felt more loyal towards her than they did towards Desta, and none of them were close enough for it to matter. Refusing the protection would look like rebellion, and she felt vulnerable enough already as it was with Clint.

As she walked to her assigned quarters, she pulled a phone out of her pocket; it was untraceable, as modern technology allowed. She rarely made calls, of course, and was aware text messages were easier tapped into. Regardless of this, her fingers swiftly typed a message of her future destination. Upon hitting send, she felt even more vulnerable.

_I can't believe I'm asking this of you._

\- 

_Leipzig, Germany_

\- 

" _Herr_ Barton, _Herr_ Rosario. Good afternoon," the elderly German medical examiner greeted upon seeing them enter the morgue. He stood leaning over a microscope, examining a piece of evidence in a petri dish.

"Doctor," Clint grunted respectfully. He couldn't deny being just a little bit tired from the plane. They had arrived less than an hour ago after an hour's flight from Paris to see the bodies of the killing Interpol's agent had so eloquently called "lacking elegance". As if there was ever elegance in death. He hadn't liked the Frenchman's word choice, but could hardly blame the man who'd spent over year tracking Natasha with futile results.

"You're here to see the bodies of Fräulein Sobczak, Herr Braun and Herr Koppel," he said. It wasn't hard to guess. The lab looked like it rarely got visitors, and their arrival had been foretold by an e-mail sent from Interpol headquarters. "Many people are interested. The Polish authorities as well."

"Why is that, doctor…" Clint grasped to remember the name he'd read off some report mid-flight.

"Heisel, Herr Barton," the medical examiner supplied. "The…miss, you call it, Karolina Sobczak was of Polish citizenship. Shall we see?"

Rosario gave a curt nod, and Dr. Heisel went to open the slab, seemingly knowing exactly where she was to be found. Clint was already internally uneasy at the tomblike silence of the morgue. He had never liked morgues, but he hadn't minded them. Perhaps his queasiness had something to do with the fact he suspected—along with Agent Leclerc—these to have been the job of Natasha, Leclerc's unnamed enforcer of death.

The young woman on the slab was pale, made even paler in death by her dark locks. She looked like the girl-next-door, innocent and not to be harmed, like the world had a tendency to do. According to her file, she was exiting her teens, but she looked younger, no world worn maturity to brighten her eyes. "DNA confirmed that she is the daughter of Herr Franz Koppel," Dr. Heisel revealed, gesturing towards the deceased in the slab on his right.

Innocent, but already guilty by blood. Once Clint wouldn't have cared that Karolina Sobczak became a casualty; now, it angered him and made him _sick_. He didn't let it show, though. "Cause of death?" he inquired.

"Bullet to the head." Heisel tilted her head to the side to show the damage, removing long brunette hair. "Prior to her death she was detained. Contusions on her wrists, but she wasn't raped or beaten."

"Thank god for small mercies," Rosario whispered behind him. If Clint remembered correctly, he had a niece that age by an older sister.

"A pity, really," Heisel mused sadly as he put the sheet back on to cover her body. Death summoned vanity and courtesy, it seemed. There was nothing vain and courteous about the young girl's death.

Sensing Heisel was talking about something particular and not merely the permanent exodus of a young girl's life, Clint asked. "What's a pity?"

The medical examiner looked at him with glazed-over eyes. "She was eleven weeks pregnant. A little boy. Like I said, a pity."

_Did you know, Tasha? Did you know that you killed a baby boy, too?_ What incentive could she possibly have had to kill a nineteen-year-old student? _Was it a mistake, or preemptive murder?_

Clint's voice was hoarse when he mustered the strength to ask: "And the two others? Koppel and the officer?"

Behind him, he felt Heisel and Rosario exchange gazes before the M.E. moved on to open the stainless steel slabs those bodies had been laid out on. Eventually, Clint, too, moved on, locking Karolina Sobczak's body back into its refrigerated box.

"Franz Koppel, drug lord awaiting sentence, shot to the head. Time of death is almost identical to his daughter's. High levels of adrenaline in his system," Heisel commented.

_Fear. He knew you were coming for him._ "Same type of bullet?"

"Ballistics came back yesterday, confirming that it originated from the same gun as the one that killed miss Sobczak." Heisel named the caliber and possible guns. "What's more interesting is the third victim."

"Officer Braun?" Rosario named, interest piqued. "In what circumstance, doctor?"

"Sobczak and Koppel were both killed medium range, whereas Herr Braun was shot close distance. In fact, multiple times. It indicates panic, as I'm sure you know, contradicting the fact that it appears to be the work of an experienced shooter. We've pulled what appear to be hair fibers off Braun but it has come up inconclusive, too many chemicals to get a viable sample."

_You are not a beginner, Natasha. Why did you allow him to come close? Why did you panic?_

"Where was he shot?" Clint asked, eyeing the white sheet that covered the man's torso, unstained by the blood of postmortem bleedings.

"He died within a minute. First bullet ruptured his spleen, the second bullet pierced his aorta, and the third nicked his jugular vein. His fist is contused, similar to someone who's been in a fight. Sadly, he only got off the one punch, it seems," Heisel said. "He was a mess to autopsy."

Clint's sympathy for the guy suddenly dropped as the image of this man punching Natasha—who could do fine in a fight, mind you—summoned itself, displayed across his inner eye. _You make me feel bad, Nat, for being good; for trying to do the right thing._

He wondered if there even was a right thing to do. He'd taken the assignment to control the information S.I.D. and subsequently S.H.I.E.L.D. received about Natasha. He'd do anything to insure that she remained undetected, but he wouldn't cover up these murders, nor did he posses the opportunity.

Clint's phone buzzed in the pocket of his jeans but he paid it no mind. "I think that'll be all, won't it, Rosario?" he asked, making sure he hadn't skipped anything. He knew from personal experience that sticking around in a morgue wouldn't help the active pursuit of L.T.'s operative.

Rosario opened his mouth to say something, but whoever tried getting a hold of Clint grew impatient, and his phone rang, and he answered. "Agent Barton."

" _Leclerc_ ," an accented voice greeted through what appeared to be bad reception.

Clint nodded a farewell to Heisel before he exited the morgue for privacy and better reception. Rosario followed suit. "Yes? We're in Leipzig, Leclerc," he explained, dying to wait for an explanation as to why the agent he'd talked to less than three hours ago was calling him.

" _One more thing you should know, Barton_ ," Leclerc said. " _Ten minutes ago, we found acharred body in a nearby crematorium that wasn't officially scheduled for cremation. DNA's identified him as Sylvio Sanchez, a prominent member of Leonum Tarpeius. We know what happened in Leipzig. Cause of death was a bullet to the forehead_."

Clint's mind worked as fast as Leclerc expected it to. Koppel and Sobczak had died from a bullet to the forehead, almost symmetrical. The conclusion left a sour taste in Clint's mouth. "You sure it's hers?"

" _As sure as I could ever be. I've hunted her for a year, Barton. Trust me, I'm sure._ "

Leclerc hung up while the archer was still processing the news, asking himself what would make Natasha turn on a fellow operatives. Frankly, there were too many reasons. Upon ending the call, he saw there was a new text message. He swiped his thumb across the glass and read it, realizing too late who had accessed his phone and enlisted a new contact.

FROM: Leona

_Palazzo al Velabro_  
 _Via del Velabro, 16_  
 _Appartamento 7_  
 _Roma_

\- 

_Rome, Italy_

_\- That evening_

\- 

Nikolaevna didn't have a place to call home, but if Natasha had to choose one residence she felt most comfortable in and with, it'd be the condominium in Rome. The name on the paper trail and contract was a false identity, reminiscent of someone with a sugar daddy—a distant provider. Most important was it was hers. She came her as often as her work allowed it—a couple of times a month, rarely for long periods of time. The warrant on her person predicted she'd be here for a while, and while she didn't mind that, she wasn't satisfied with being cooped up.

Pale marble stretched across the floor as she entered. The condo wasn't audaciously large, but it was spacious. Four feet above her light streamed in through a stained glass dome in the ceiling, creating a kaleidoscope path in the middle of the hall. She'd had the orange and red glass replaced. It brought terrible memories back, but she still enjoyed the rainbow of blues, greens and yellows.

Natasha dropped what little belongings she had with her on the coffee table. French doors clashed with the Roman style decorative columns. She supposed it did look like an ancient family home, but she liked its many exits—the kitchen back door, the front door, the gardens, the balcony, and the window in the bathroom. It was simple and lovely, and she had rarely brought people here to taint it.

She changed into something more recommendable in the warm Rome weather, and redressed the wound on her forearm, which was looking more promising than it had been a day ago. The summer was growing hotter and hotter and she almost longed for Vienna's rainy weather. She was Russian—while that didn't mean she embraced torturous winterscapes, it did mean that she generally liked colder climates better than insufferable heat. What puzzled her was that she'd then picked a sanctuary in Rome of all places. Here she could fool herself into being normal, if even only for half an hour when she went browsing the shops. She never let herself fully believe it though—her speechlessness was enough to remind her that she'd never be normal. She would never again possess the silver tongue that had so often gotten her out of trouble, even as a young child. No, she communicated in Tarpeius only because Leons like the Bastard, Kraus, Vlad, and Elias knew how to read her lips.

_What about Clint, then?_

_Clint's different_ , she argued. Clint would always be different. Clint was the one predictable thing she'd never been able to predict. He was the perfect gentleman one minute and then a complete asshole. She'd give him every goddamn reason to skedaddle and he'd handcuff them together and promise he'd never leave.

_But I did, Clint._ She caved and sat down, semi-collapsing into the pearl-colored couch, burying her head in one hand, elbow propped and supporting her, legs hooking under her, curled up. She felt the prosthetic fingers dig into her forehead and felt like crying furiously. Neither the Black Widow nor Nikolaevna sobbed or cried, so she just sat there, emotionally a mess. God, she wished she'd never left. But things had been a whole lot messier than they were now—with Clint, with Fury, with her goddamn work. She'd had to screw up everything she'd worked so hard to get by allowing maddening compassion to blur with the destructive past she'd had with Red Room. She wished she'd wished that Hill hadn't assigned her that reconnaissance mission; that she hadn't accepted, but it would have had gruesome consequences. Instead, events had lead to her disappearance. She had vowed to herself that a cold turkey would be the best—for the both of them, for the both of their sanities, if any were left. She had vowed that he'd never see her and be compromised. She had vowed to not look back.

She ran the fingers through her hair in frustration. Being alone shouldn't mean breaking down. She felt her chest tighten. She whirled the decorative pillow at thin air and felt her body quake to the symphony of soundless sobs. When did the world become so fucked up that she felt guilty for being remorseless? She didn't regret leaving Clint, and yet she wished for all things in the world that it hadn't happened. The point was— _Clint_ could fend for himself. That had been the ultimate incentive. If Clint had been smart, he would have found himself another partner (although it pained her to envision it); he could even had quit S.H.I.E.L.D.; he could have gotten a steady girlfriend and gotten married (part of her still knew it was possible to have transpired, but not _really_ —she liked to think she knew him better than that). Clint was smart, but, evidently, not when it came to her.

Natasha would never have wished that upon him. Her greatest secret was in Serbia and she planned for it to remain there indefinitely. If Desta discovered she was sleeping with Clint, what would he do? What could _she_ do? The best thing would be to end it this instant. But Natasha, who'd never been particularly good at selfish—not when it came to emotions of all things, anyhow—found herself wanting to be with Clint for reasons beyond physically feeling good. She pondered the pros and cons night and day and slept poorly without him. Their relationship wasn't logical and hell knew she'd been working hard to build a place for herself in the Leonum Tarpeius. It wasn't logical to risk it by allowing whatever they'd once been to flare about up.

She squeezed the fictitious life out of the pillow—she refused to call it hugging—and threw it in the direction of the first in sheer frustration at her indecisiveness. She was risking everything, and for what? The perfect chance to wind up in one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s tightest security lockups, that's what. If she even was that lucky.

Only then did her fogged brain register the lack of sound as to the pillow's eventual landing. She looked up from her disheveled lap and froze, acutely aware of how she must look—eyes puffy, snotty, mascara runny, and if she was particularly lucky (which she was feeling), a two-finger red mark in the area of her forehead where the pressure of the prosthetic had alleviated her mental issues by physical discomfort.

He looked like _shit_. The hand that hadn't caught the flying pillow—thrown in the belief she was alone—was holding what appeared to be a briefcase with a compartment for clothes (she knew the model) and he was wearing a suit. As in, businessman suit. Maybe not the most formal, but it made her grimace. Clint didn't belong in a suit. He wasn't a Coulson; he was a hands-on, down-and-dirty spy. She hoped the phrase wouldn't offend Coulson, but the fact that Clint's suit was ruffled and the jacket thrown recklessly over his arm helped some. He'd rolled his sleeves up, probably due to the heat. His expression was what really did a number on her, though. He obviously hadn't expected to come to her apartment and see her like this.

She angrily wiped rogue tears from her face. One thing was being discovered vulnerable, another was fucking _remaining_ it. She felt cornered. How had he even gotten into her apartment without her knowledge? She was supposed to be safe in here, and he'd gotten in without her consent or alert. He caught her panicking look, because he kneeled down and discarded his belongings. "Shh, Tasha, I'm not here to hurt you."

He looked as surprised as she was regarding the statement, but she accepted his words anyway. He hugged her, but her body stiffened and didn't respond at first, until it did, and she melted into the fuzzy comfort that was Clint, breathing in his scent. Like a scared little child—which she'd never been—she buried her head in his chest. He knew her well enough to leave her hands unrestrained.

'I missed you,' she admitted into his chest even though (or perhaps because) he couldn't possibly read her lips. She underestimated, because somehow, he knew what she'd mouthed either way.

"I missed you, too," he replied and his words sounded sincere, or maybe it was just her biased brain that let her believe it. Being addicted to Clint wasn't going to go away like ripping off a band-aid, no. Clint was infectious, and once that had meant amplifying her skills and humanity. Somehow, she knew it'd get her killed, if not them both.

He read her body language, and normally she would have been pissed but her childish tantrum had left her depleted of her usually bottled anger. When he let go of her, she was relieved, but did the best for her unruly hair hide the disheveled face.

"Had a bad week, huh?" he asked, and she nearly gave him that look that said _don't go there._ He must have realized, because he continued. "I'm here now, Tasha. What happened?"

The way his eyes softened and his index finger was allowed to trail her jawline was all part of why she became so fucking indecisive around him. _Why did it have to be you, Clint? You don't deserve this_. Neither of them deserved this, but she'd always been convinced she was lacking on the karmic scale, so maybe she did, but there was no argument that would sway her into believing that Clint deserved falling in love with someone as poisoned as her. In these few weeks, she'd seen what she'd made of him. She saw him struggle between doing the right thing and caring for her.

_If I'd been strong, I would have bailed on you in Vienna. I wouldn't have waited. I might even have shot you._ She reciprocated the touch, letting her tortured eyes lower themselves unto the collar and buttons of his dress shirt as if it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. There was no passion in her movements, merely relief at his presence. _I was never that strong, Clint. I just made you believe that I was._

"What happened?" he asked, awfully soft, as his large hand traced the edge of the medical tape she'd secured the gauze with.

She looked up, adamant not to look broken like she knew she was. What did he see in her? 'Blade.'

"Your own or another's?" Clint asked with a sly smile and realized his mistake soon enough. She had never, in the time he'd known her, injured herself with one of her blades—which she had deposited and sold after leaving S.H.I.E.L.D.'s employment, mind you, some of them tracing back as far as Red Room's graduation ceremony—during training or missions. It was implausible, as she'd made a habit out of knowing every inch and gram of every knife she owned. She knew how to use her knives—and she knew how to defend herself against them, too, turning them into her weapon even in another wielder's hands. "Sorry."

She shook her head. There was no need for apologizing. 'It was dirty. It has been cleaned.'

The irony of the statement was not lost on her, as Clint pushed her into his lap. 'Pushed' might have been the wrong term, because although she was reluctant towards the movement, she allowed him to do it although she could have easily been stubborn. Her fabricated fingers pressed down on his forearm in instinctual defense and he winced, but pulled her closer anyway. _Why do you collect broken toys, Clint?_ She removed the hand that held the prosthesis, acutely aware of how it unnerved people—hell, it unnerved her, and she'd been wearing it for almost a year. She could have lost so much more in that explosion, and yet it hadn't felt like that when she'd awoken and seen that her primary shooting hand was damaged beyond repair.

"Let me see," Clint murmured. Shyly, she kept it on her stomach. She wasn't being coy. He might be entrusted with many things, but her fingers… she wasn't ready for that. Hell, if she'd had a say in the matter, he wouldn't even have known about it yet. And yet she didn't mind.

She felt his eyes on her, demanding and yet so free of expectations and forgiving. 'There was… an explosion,' she told him, adamant not to face him as she shared her demons. Being mute was a gift now, because she was certain she would have been hoarse if speech had been available. 'I couldn't….'

Her fingers trembled, as if mourning the loss of their lost digits. She swallowed. Remembering was hard, even when she told herself it wasn't. Finding the words after being deprived of them so long, her reluctance to share just accepted, was harder. 'I wasn't supposed to be there. But I was. The bomb…'

Natasha's memory of the particular event was fuzzy. She hadn't told anybody about it, although Desta had guessed most of it. It was due to him and his dirty trauma surgeons that her entire hand hadn't been amputated. 'The fire was deafening. Nobody screamed. It was… quiet. At first I didn't register what was wrong. But then I knew.'

He listened even though it had to seem out of context and order. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, never interrupting, not even when she decided it was enough. The glimpses made her dizzy, and she didn't want him to know what had happened, finding what he assumed that much easier.

_Then I heard the screams._

_Then I felt true fear._


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?
> 
> An insomniac Natasha discovers Clint's investigation of Leonum Tarpeius and houses an unlikely ally; she confronts Clint in anger.

_Rome, Italy_

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

The regular thumps made her stir into that terrible stage before wakefulness, and she fisted her hands in an attempt to banish the noise, so she could fall back into sleep. Unaccustomed to its regularity and presence, she grimaced, tensed and buried her head further. Something moved, another weight was placed, and suddenly, the thumping wasn't so bad.

Accompanied by cute snores, Natasha tried to fall back into a dreamless sleep, head on Clint's chest, listening to the lullaby of his heartbeat. After five minutes of trying, she just gave up and opened her eyes, staring into the abyss of darkness that was the space above the bed in her bedroom. She didn't try to get up or disentangle herself from Clint—who even in his sleep seemed to be restraining her protectively—seeing no need to wake him up just because she had terrible sleeping patterns. She listened to his breathing: Inhalation. Exhalation. As much calming as it was, it wasn't enough to expel her concerns.

Five years ago, they had stumbled tentatively into a relationship like this. In fact, it was probably closer to six years, but she wasn't about to admit to the fact that they'd actually managed to go steady for a year before everything fell apart.

They had been S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best. Maybe not morally or saintly so, but professionally, they _worked_ , even when it got personal. It was as simple as that, at least to their supervisors and superiors. The two operatives worked as if crafted to function perfectly. Their personal partnership, if discovered (it was naïve to think there hadn't been suspicions), had been overlooked due to the incredible complementation the two agents—assassins, really, if they were being honest—achieved, especially considering their contrasting training. Sure, they were a pain in the ass to address and deal with, but they got the job done, even when it was jobs that would have left even the toughest of veterans sleepless at night, questioning precisely what S.H.I.E.L.D. did. They owed S.H.I.E.L.D.—or people _at_ S.H.I.E.L.D—too much to complain or quit, but secretly (perhaps not so secretly, given the gossip that had ventured the lounges and mess halls of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s junior agents) depended on their jobs to remain sane. Whoever had approved the partner assignment between the Black Widow, reformed freestyle assassin and deserter, and the remarkable marksman (but questionably sane) Hawkeye had probably been laughed at in the beginning. As the years had progressed, so a partnership had grown, and they had proven their critics wrong by establishing one of the firmest and most loyal partnerships. Yet it hadn't been until the aftermath of New York that they learnt the true meaning of codependence.

She hated to think back and realize how thoroughly suicidal her partner had been after saving Manhattan from alien invasion and the subsequent narrowly averted atomic detonation of a nuclear bomb per the orders of the Council. She understood why he'd been considering the action, given his—although later pardoned—participation, indirectly or directly, of the termination of countless S.H.I.E.L.D. agents (31, she'd looked it up) as the result of his involuntary cooperation with the enemy. She normally wasn't one to assume or proclaim right to anything, unless guilt and punishment over past misdeeds, but if she stopped lying to herself, she knew, deep down, that she might have singlehandedly kept her partner from the allure of getting himself killed pointlessly in the random street fights he'd sought following the events of New York.

He'd hated himself for being weak enough to get manipulated and mind-fucked by Loki, although he couldn't be blamed (as much as some members of the Council had tried). For a while, she'd refused to talk to him about it, but then he'd accessed the reports on the incident, sending him down in a secondary spiral of guilt. She had been forced to wake up in lonely darkness and hunt him down, finding him drunken on hatred, probably alcohol induced, sore and beaten from street fighting with amateur. She'd known he'd allowed most of the punches to fall on him, probably even pulled some punches, as he was a decent combat fighter. You had to be in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s employment.

Lying next to him, she knew he'd overcome that self-loathing. Hell, she'd been there to witness it the day he'd started wanting to live again. Going from platonic friends to lovers had seemed natural, but she'd done her best to prevent it until she'd realized one day that she had begun loathing herself for being so stubbornly craven in regards to the possibility of love. They hadn't been open about their relationship, obviously. Aside from tight S.H.I.E.L.D. fraternization regulations regarding the prohibition of romantic partnerships, neither of them had been particular fond of the idea of being the target of Stark's teasing. They had gotten enough of it before they actually started sleeping together. Stark's adamant claim had been that a partnership and friendship like theirs couldn't be—or remain—platonic. Natasha could have said the same thing about the bond between Potts and him, but hadn't voiced it. They would have been split the moment the Council knew per protocols, regardless of their nearly perfect success rate. They'd kept it private then for reasons personal and professional.

_What does that make this, then?_ She thought, eyeing the sleeping form of Clint, whose hand was draped casually across her stomach as he laid on his own stomach, drooling unattractively. She refrained from caressing his sticky forehead with her partially fingerless hand. She had removed the prosthesis, and oddly, for the first time ever, felt as though she'd abandoned a vital part of her. She refused to see it for what it was—that being with Clint had somehow made her accept it as part of her.

She'd loathed the prosthesis only a tiny bit less than being severely at a disadvantage in a gunfight. Having been ambidextrous for more than half her life—which was saying a lot without revealing anything, —suddenly being crippled had been a total loss and impact on her fighting style. Her efficiency had been cut fifty percent just because she didn't have a fucking thumb and index finger to fire a goddamn gun. It had taken her months to relearn how to fire a gun with the rather sophisticated—but still ridiculously inept—prosthesis, during which she'd utterly hated herself. The prosthesis made her stronger but her dependence of it weakened her. That, coupled with her muteness, had retired Natalia Romanova for good. Even if she hadn't destroyed Red Room for good, and they'd come looking for her, planning to retake and re-brainwash her (not that she'd allow them—she'd rather be dead than be mind-fucked all over, a slave to their whims), they would never be successful in reprogramming her. She'd be too damaged. She _was_ too damaged. She could never be the spy she once was. She'd lost half her arsenal and adapting required effort.

Clint made her remember the Natasha who'd worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. and been part of the Avengers; the one who'd endured and systematically threatened Tony Stark, but ultimately forgiven him and protected his sorry ass in multiple battles (even taught him how to fight properly—not the honorable stuff Hogan tried to teach, but _real fighting_ that was going to save his life one day); the one who'd sat through nightly conversations and occasional rounds of chess until she'd stopped fearing Bruce Banner like the proverbial bogeyman; the one who'd surprised herself with cooking for a Norse God, much to the others' astonishment (if there was one thing she wasn't, it was a fucking housewife); and the one who'd reluctantly befriended the soldier out of time and in turn been the one half of the most loyal friendship she'd met since Clint; the one whom she had forced herself to pack away like some shameful token when she'd left America and S.H.I.E.L.D., heading for any place where they'd be safe.

Because even though she might have had the most powerful friends in the world—friends who'd go through hell to save her—the one thing they could never promise her was safety.

… _in the service of liars and killers_. She banished the demon's whisperers and forced herself to think of something else—anything else. After a while, she tricked herself into falling back asleep.

The next time she opened her eyes, the clock next to her silently announced that she had slept for a bare hour, despite the sensation as if she had slept for ten. Clint had stirred from his quite possessive grasp of her, and lied next to her, his archer body draped across the bed, the sheet covering his semi-nude form from the waist down. Temptation was mild after last night's—this night's?—complete and utterly useless breakdown. She refused to have another moment of weakness like that. Problem was that most people didn't make inquiries to how she lost the fingers, or how she lost her voice—two separate occasions as it had been—but Clint would, Clint _always_ would. He'd always been persistently gentle at getting into her head, at getting to know her.

Natasha froze mid-breath when she heard a subtle—almost noiseless, even—sound from the kitchen. It was insignificant, and normally she wouldn't have realized it, but her good ear was turned towards the room. Upon listening more attentively, she could confirm that _someone_ was in her kitchen. She slipped out of the bed stealthily, careful not to startle Clint, and grabbed the nearest item of clothing that would suffice to cover her up. It happened to be Clint's shirt—the cliché almost made her search for her duffel bag (for her own clothes) in the darkness. Normally she wouldn't have minded facing an enemy nude, but in the case Clint awoke, it'd be hard to explain her haste to face an intruder head-on instead of getting dressed. In short terms, it was just easier to deal with.

She snuck through the condominium until she entered the room in question, letting out a sigh of relief when she saw the tall shape of the Bastard, her fellow resident for the time being. His casualness unsettled her and tarnished her sanctuary. Regardless, he was still staying in her guest bedroom, although she knew he must have returned during the night from some lovers' reunion, or maybe a trip to the local whorehouse. He hadn't even bothered to flip on the light switch, making his intrusion even more eerie. However, Natasha wasn't a frightened college student, but a capable martial arts specialist, so there wasn't going to be a horror movie reenactment anytime soon. Rather disapproving, she got his attention by poking him on his shoulder.

"Who—oh, it's you," the Bastard realized, a silhouette and a British accent everything that revealed his identity in the darkness of the Roman apartment. She gestured towards the mess he'd made with a look of exasperation. "Thought it was your boyfriend."

Well, he couldn't be accused of being unperceptive. She relied on gestures and gesticulations in the darkness, unwilling to totally banish sleepiness by turning on the lights that would rule out any possibilities of sleep beyond this point.

"What, I was hungry, 'been up all night," the larger man grunted in his defense, helping himself to the freshly (and quite expensively) purchased arrangements of cheese. He'd hastily applied it to a slice of bread without appreciation for the rich taste. _Men_ , Natasha thought sourly and faithlessly. Then she realized what he'd said—or rather, what he had meant—and, knowing there was a fifty percent chance of being informed he'd merely gotten laid, chose to inquire.

'Where have you been?' she asked, placing herself in a patch of moonlight so the Bastard could see her face and subsequently read her lips.

The Bastard didn't even cease wolfing down the sandwich he'd made himself as he answered her question. "It turns out you're not the only one who got screwed in Germany."

The phrase was enough to make every probability of bickering (or scolding, for that manner) evaporate, and she assumed the protective duties of a leader. She'd been responsible for two groups during the past month in Germany—the last of which she'd personally escorted across the border. It left her to assume he'd meant Leipzig.

'Who, Vladislav?' she guessed, forgetting about the man who was sleeping in her bed upstairs and who might or might not be listening if he'd awoken. 'Spinner?'

The man shook his head as he resumed speaking and swallowed the bite of food he'd been chewing. "Belova. She got ambushed, passed out. She woke up in a hospital. I got her out of there before police could arrive. I brought her here." He gave her a momentarily soft look that said he'd acted on instinct rather than orders. It was gone as soon as it had arrived. "Apparently, they have video connecting her to Koppel's girl."

It wasn't necessary to elaborate on who "they" were: the Interpol team that had been following her—the reason to the Bastard's presence in her life. Or alternatively, the German task force, or maybe even Takahashi, whom Natasha still hadn't dealt with. Natasha's blood ran cold as she took in his message. She hadn't given Belova a moment's consideration since Dresden, having been too preoccupied with running Desta's missions within Germany. She remembered the world-weary face of the inexperienced teen. If the authorities had video of Belova, did they have recordings of her? The thought was unsettling, and maybe assigning the Bastard to her side hadn't been as rash as she'd originally believed.

It also meant that the odds of Clint being drawn into Tarpeius business had just increased. What was she, a boarding house? She refrained from asking the Bastard, instead softening her expression to convey the gratitude at his having dealt with what could have easily become her problem. 'Thanks.'

"She's sleeping. I'm fixing her some food," he replied, gesturing towards the plate he'd been shielding from her sight. Well, maybe not shielding as much as she hadn't been alert enough to notice it. She tilted her head at the almost fatherly tone in the Bastard's voice, and he must have realized it, because he quickly grunted. "Don't get any bad ideas, Lioness. If she starves, it's on you."

Natasha chuckled, but her mind was already trying to fix the mess tomorrow would be. She touched the Bastard's forearm to halt his movements. 'Don't get lost in her pretty face. She's as responsible for her actions as you'd be.'

He nodded in solemn, even if regretful, understanding. "Meaning you'll give her hell for getting caught. In the meanwhile," he said without a trace of judgment or threat, "I'd suggest you restrain your little friend from your guestrooms."

She let out a sigh as he disappeared around the corner, heading in the direction of the guestrooms. She suddenly felt as if she really _could_ sleep for ten hours. She looked at the crumbles on the cutting board the Bastard had left and swiftly turned on the faucet to clean it remotely, if only to welcome the distraction the sound of the running water brought her. It was nicely cool against the heated and healing area around her wound. Knowing postponing the inevitable would do no one good, she eventually made her way back to her bedroom—the one she'd claimed as hers, anyway, as it appeared that her home wasn't exactly hers exclusively any longer, seemingly housing a random number of Leons and lovers alike, most without her permission—in the darkness. Maybe this was how Kraus felt, she mused sleepily and found far more sympathy towards the eternally whining rich man than she'd ever mustered. If this continued at this rate, she'd be demanding favors, too—although most likely not as intimate as Kraus' preference. Cleaning would be nice, she thought, recalling the mess the Bastard had made with her cheeses and kitchen utensils.

Apparently she was so distracted—by the promise of sleep and these additional worries—that she did not see the suitcase on the floor, abandoned earlier this evening, imported into her otherwise memorized furniture layout. She fell and scowled, grabbing her shin as if applying pressure would ease the temporarily blinding pain. She was angrier at herself for not having seen the goddamn thing than at the physical pain. Normally she wouldn't have bothered to be so whiny and vulnerable to injury, but she was alone and exhausted and working on single-digits hours of sleep this week. Granted, it was only Wednesday, but she was dealing with stress inducing factors. Nikolaevna was the epitome of equanimity amongst the Leons, and Natasha knew that better than anyone, but solitude allowed her to be whiny if she goddamn felt like it, even if the solitude was canceled out by people's apparent belief that she was a hostel. She would have never invited Clint if that had been the case.

Thinking about the archer, who was ultimately to blame for the misplaced suitcase, Natasha spotted the broken (and probably forgotten) lock on the suitcase, which had caused its contents to be visible, white papers a contrast to the darkness. Ever the spy, she couldn't keep herself—despite her own vow not to mix business with pleasure when it came to her relationship with Clint—from exploring, just a little bit, if only for the familiarity of S.H.I.E.L.D. documents in her hands. Her fingers slipped into the warm leather, clinging to the sides but adeptly placing index and middle finger on each side of the papers, retrieving them. She ignored the laptop in the pocket next to the papers, knowing that shuffling through some papers was far more innocent than hacking a man's work laptop. That's what she told herself anyway.

She'd lived through many eras of technology and had stolen handwritten notes, procured manila folders of data, killed for flashdrives, and fought off thugs while synchronizing deletion of skydrives. Still, paperwork remained, something for which Natasha was grateful. Perhaps outdated but not forgotten, it carried some semblance to her own condition. As her eyes, having adapted to the low lighting, scanned the letterheads, she frowned, a queasy sensation running through her, marring with disbelief.

_Organisation Internationale de Police Criminelle_. Another, quite frequent actually, read, _Strategic Intervention Division_. Upon reading the actual content, her fears were verified. Amongst them were the autopsy reports on Karolina Sobczak, Franz Koppel, Albert Braun and—she bit her lip in semi-surprise, followed by a swallow—Sylvio Sanchez.

Dread filled her. She thought she'd been careful. Why did Clint have printed versions of Interpol's reports on her? Was he hunting her? Was being back merely a charade, meant to entrap her? The thoughts were distressing but she kept her calm as she dug through, now unreluctant, the pages of information, all theorizing the moves of Tarpeius. Anger and horrification filled her. She couldn't believe she'd allowed herself to believe his goodwill so gullibly. She fisted her hands in rage. God, when had she regressed to someone who could be blinded by previous allegiances? Sure, the emotions flashing across Barton's face had been real, but regardless, he'd investigated her and her organization.

Which meant S.H.I.E.L.D. _knew_. Which in itself startled her. Barton wasn't good enough of an emotional liar to conceal his affections for her, was he? If he'd ratted her out, they wouldn't have allowed him to continue hunting her, would they? Her insecurities festered like an infection. Did S.H.I.E.L.D. trust him to hunt her down and remaining uncompromised? And why were there no S.H.I.E.L.D. reports when he'd so obviously brought the rest of his files?

Maybe it was a trick. The thought overcame her. Maybe he wanted her to see these. Damn that bastard! She gritted her teeth in indecision. She flipped through the pages once more. According to these, at least, it seemed she remained a ghost. Maybe she could use it to her advantage. They made no mention of Belova or a girl with similar appearance. Had the Bastard lied, or had Clint? And if so, had it been a lie by ignorance or omission?

Any wish to sleep evaporated in her anger. She knew she wouldn't be able to keep up her façade, but knew that she had to. If Clint really was trying to lure and seduce her—a task that had once been reversed, she realized bitterly—confronting him would not earn her anything.

_I told you so much. I trusted you_. She should be accustomed to betrayal at this point; problem was, Clint had never betrayed her—she couldn't count New York, it'd be unfair, and technically never his fault—and she hadn't expected the kind-hearted, jaded man to start now. If she'd been able, she feared she would have cried, yet desperate to remain undetected by all occupants and guests, she got up and grabbed the stack of papers with the letterheads of half a dozen intelligence agencies. Overcame by scorn, she kicked the suitcase into safety from prying eyes and _marched_ through the house, defiance trying to victor over the hurt in her glazed-over eyes. This time it wasn't weakness, no; it was fury.

It was the vengeful ghost of the Black Widow.

\- 

_SMACK._

"What the…!" Clint shouted, clutching the reddening cheek as blood rushed to the handprint-sized and shaped mark. " _What the fuck, Tasha?!_ " he hissed, eyes thunderously confused.

Then his vision became clearer and he saw the possibly seething face of an assassin and murderess. He immediately backed off in response, nearly falling off the edge of the bed. He took in her appearance. She was wearing the black underwear she'd worn upon getting to bed, and additionally his dress shirt, which had been discarded last thing he'd known. She'd flipped on the light, and was clutching papers in her right hand—papers, he realized, which resembled the reports he'd had in his…. Realization dawned on him.

'What is this?' she demanded, each syllable spat with venom. He could practically hear them pronounced.

"It's not what you think, Tasha!" he protested. It didn't take a genius to realize that she'd found the reports and read them, considering her slap to his sleeping face.

The _beast_ in front of him tilted her head intimidatingly as if she contemplated waiting for an explanation, or if she should just kill him already. Not wanting to take any chances, Clint started speaking. "Alright, alright! Yeah, I'm working the case. I know what happened in Leipzig. Because you refused to tell me!"

The statement wasn't entirely lacking accusation, he'd admit that, but it did nothing to quench the raging woman in front of him, who angrily threw a pillow in his direction. He slid off the bed, wanting to put some space—or furniture—between them. He knew _that_ look. _That_ look had killed people in the past.

'You are working with Interpol,' she spat in accusation, eyes wild and ferocious. He dodged another item.

"You think I'm here on orders?" he asked in disbelief, knowing it was the conclusion she must have drawn. "That's ridiculous! Do you really think I could look at you and… deceive you?"

Her glare wavered but was refueled. 'I don't know!' she admitted, but there was nothing innocent or vulnerable about the statement. He saw her body shake with anger, adrenaline pulsing through her. _Shit_ , she was _pissed._

"Dammit, Tasha, I could never do that. I just wanted the truth okay? I wanted to fucking protect you—you don't realize what you're getting yourself into! If you think you're _like them_ ," he said incredulously, recalling the works he'd seen in the morgues and in reports, "then you're a liar."

'Oh, and you're not?' she spat, summoning a responding fury within her, breaking his heart. 'You're the fucking enemy in this house, Clint! What the fuck are we doing?' she asked heatedly. She wanted an answer so desperately, he could tell. He reached for her, but she shied away.

"I'm here for you," he confessed, his voice softer.

'You don't know me,' Natasha spat vehemently.

"That's bullshit, Tasha. You are who you've always been. You've made some bad choices—so have I." He sighed in resignation, trying to banish the anger he felt—anger at seeing her so faithless when it came to him. "I should have told you about the files."

Her fingers twitched for a gun. He swallowed hard, thankful that there wasn't one available; he wasn't entirely sure what she would have done, had she been armed. 'Damn right you should have,' she mouthed, eyes hard as she threw the crumpled papers unto the bed. He made no move to fetch them.

"Keep them," he said. "But I guess you know most of it, don't you?" He couldn't keep the accusation out of his voice, not this time. Why couldn't she see that these people were a bad influence? That she was a bad influence on _them_?

_Your skillset's never going to bring peace, Natasha. Only destruction. Especially with these people._

The fire in her eyes burned. 'Don't you dare—!'

"What? Tell the truth? They're criminals. They're scums. You know what that makes you? Yeah, you do. Because you used to do this job— _my job_. You know what Interpol thinks of you, because you've thought the same, don't deny it! But if you're not careful, it doesn't matter what Interpol thinks of you, because they'll _have you_."

'Get. Out.' She snarled like an animal that had been taunted too many times, and he could see she was dead serious, the promise of physical harm there in her bright eyes, darkened with wrath.

"Can't take the truth, Tash?" he asked her tauntingly. _Don't you see what I'm seeing?_

'You lied to me, Clint. You went behind my back and got yourself assigned to my fucking case. _This_?' She gestured between them, 'is all on you. So excuse me—.' He heard the unmistakable sound of a gun's safety behind shut off before he saw the cool metal aimed in his direction, '—if I'm not in a _listening_ mood. Get out!'

He started locating his shoes and clothes. "Yeah, you're not lying to yourself. Not at all. You won't pull the trigger, we both know that." He looked at her, sincere hurt in his eyes, but affected by anger, too. "You have my shirt."

He was half expecting her to say something like "get a new one, then, fucker" (although she was always far more eloquent in her insults and obscene language), but could only watch as she expertly unbuttoned the shirt without any affection in her eyes; eyes that were cold and numb like the Russian winter during which she'd been born. She never took her eyes off him or lowered the gun. Cold-hearted bitch—except not really, because he knew she was merely shielding, and that she was only numb like this because she was too emotional; because she was afraid she might actually pull the goddamn trigger and watch his torso turn crimson with the color of her fury, or that she'd actually lower the gun and have it in her to forgive him. She was cold because she cared. And she knew that caring got you compromised, and compromised got you killed.

Natasha threw the shirt at him and pretended not to be vulnerable as he couldn't help but notice her body, clad only in lingerie. It was a weakness on his part, and momentary slip, and when he glanced up at her bright eyes, they were hard as marble, cold as ice. She chased him through the house—although he refused to run, acutely aware of the barrel of the gun and its direction—and he only said one thing as he stepped out of the porch, his eyes burning with anger and accusation. "You're making a mistake."

The answer was getting the wooden door shut in his face. He sighed and kicked his suitcase, sending it flying across the street, the Roman lampposts providing enough light for the lovers' quarrel. His body was still quaking with anger as realization sunk in.

\- 

Natasha had always been good at pretending, and maybe that was why she managed to go back to sleep and get up hours later, acting as if nothing had happened even if the Bastard and Yelena sent her curious and mildly fearful gazes. She pretended not to notice their evident curiosity, but they were wise enough to remain silent for the entirety of breakfast, and she was immensely proud of herself for not caving in. She brought the mug to her lips and sipped the tea graciously, lowering the mug delicately. She'd barely acknowledged them when they entered the kitchen, but when they hadn't left the room, she'd stubbornly refused to share.

They knew, or at least, had heard and suspected what had happened. They were behaving like children who had been caught in the crossfire of a parental disagreement. Natasha knew better than to fool herself into a comparison. These people were trained killers.

The Bastard had retired to his own guestroom—which meant the floor by the bed where Belova had slept—leaving her and the teenager alone. Yelena eyed her, assessing her, which would have made her chuckle if she'd been a lesser woman. Aside from a superficial gash that ran through her right eyebrow—Natasha wondered if it'd heal without scarring—Yelena's injuries were mostly the result of repeated kicks to her midsection. She was bruised but she hadn't suffered internal damage. Natasha knew how internal bleeding looked on a person, and Yelena moved too easily and swiftly (albeit stiffly) for such pain.

It had been weeks since she'd seen Yelena, the progeny Red Room trained to kill her, and the brunette hadn't changed noticeably—aside from the yellowish purple bruises that adorned parts of her body, making her look even younger than she claimed to be. Natasha also knew better than to underestimate her due to injuries. At Belova's age, Red Room would have trained her to not succumb to the agony of injury, even if severe. Red Room would have called her current injuries "scratches", and forced her to overcome the weakness of pain, taught her to fuel it and turn it into strength.

Finally, the girl seemed to be unable to withstand the silent torture. Impatience was a hardly earned virtue, it seemed, but then again, the girl was seventeen years old, if not younger. "What happened last night?"

Natasha gave her a solemn look. She wasn't about to tell a teenaged criminal that she'd caught her lover investigating her—nor that the lover had been a federal agent working actively to bring them down. 'Nothing.'

Yelena tilted her head in disbelief, opening her mouth, presumably to tease. "Didn't sound like nothing."

'Stop it, Yelena,' Natasha mouthed irritably.

She looked positively shocked at the scolding. "Stop what? I was simply curious."

The experienced spy tightened her hold on the tea mug before deciding to put it in the sink. 'Let's go,' she ordered mildly, walking out of the room. She _refused_ to talk about her relationship problems with a girl who barely looked like she'd exited puberty. If she knew Red Room's training tactics well enough—which she did, having endured and assigned them for well past two decades—the girl knew _nothing_ about relationships or proper human interaction. A relationship definitely counted as proper human interaction in Natasha's book. Hell, _surviving_ without Red Room counted as proper human interaction.

She walked calmly into the room normal people would have used for meditation or exercise. It resembled some sort of sensei's cave. She'd kept the walls barren, the floorboards uncarpeted. Natasha, whose rage had escaped her during the night, leaving her hurt and feeling betrayed, placed herself opposite the longhaired teen. To Yelena's credit, she quickly caught unto what was going on, because her eyes widened and she tightened the muscles in her arms, ready to assume a defensive stance.

Yelena had not only had the audacity to make inquiries to someone above her, she'd also managed to forget that almost getting caught warranted punishments; something she'd be familiar with if she'd been trained by the same men who'd trained Natasha. Natasha didn't need passion to fight, didn't need to think of something to anger her, no. She was like Bruce—deep down, she was always angry, but it was a channeled anger, a concealed and incombustible one. It was a deadly one that had taken years to master, but it had been that anger and control that had crowned her the Black Widow. She'd been successful in taking all emotions and using them to achieve her endgame. Compassion, jealousy, attraction and hatred alike.

The first strike fell on Belova's cheek undefended. Natasha quirked a brow to provoke the student, and next thing she knew, she was dodging a powerful but nevertheless imbalanced kick. She grabbed the hovering angle and twisted so her opponent was sent to the floor with a loud and ungraceful (not to mention unladylike) thud. This was what she'd meant when the Bastard had mentioned punishing Belova for her failures. She almost got herself caught by not leaving Germany. By allowing herself to be singled out, she'd made a target of herself. She needed to be better than that. This was what they would have done in Red Room to teach her a lesson. All Natasha's lessons had been taught with pain, agony and occasional torment, obtained through burns, blood, tears and sweat. Never before had Natasha felt so understanding of Red Room's ways. If this was what half-finished looked like, she almost preferred the end result. Yelena was confused and semi-capable. It'd lead to arrogance, which would get her killed if someone did not teach her.

With am impressively silent groan and agility, Belova got back up. Natasha saw her assessment in those brown eyes, and knew her move the moment it began its ascension. She parried the blow and reciprocated, one that the younger operative defended and fluently responded to. She was quick on her feet, but nothing beat hard-earned experience. Belova wasn't done growing, and so she didn't have Natasha's acute sense of self and of balance. That kind of knowledge required years of injuries and rehabilitation, often forced. Belova launched forward, trying to compensate for balance uncertainty by quick movements. Natasha responded, twirling herself around so that hitting nothing almost made the younger woman breathlessly stumble.

'You exert yourself,' Natasha stated as they circled each other like pack wolves. She purposefully copied her first move, which was blunt and worked only as surprise attack, and was pleased to see Belova immediately counterattack and dodge, using the momentum to spin around and kick Natasha so that she tottered sideways. She feigned breathlessness but when Belova didn't take, she grabbed the younger woman's hand and twisted hard, hitting her with an open hand stroke in the throat.

Yelena flew back, coughing, her eyes murderous. Natasha gave her points for not grabbing her probably broken nose. 'Good, you're committing yourself to the fight,' Natasha mouthed as she parried several blows that were clearly meant to exert her. Yelena tackled her and they both fell to the ground, recovering quickly and getting up on fours.

"Why are you doing this?" she spat hoarsely, probably from a traumatized trachea. Natasha could see the real question, the wavering insecurity. _What are you trying to teach me_ , her eyes seemed to demand.

Good, she was catching on. Natasha spun her legs around so she had Belova's legs locked. She dug her elbow into the bruised abdominal flesh, making the young one moan in pain and hiss hatefully. She flew backwards, and Belova copied the action, getting to her feet. Belova steadily blocked her blows with her forearms, placing them strategically for best posture and least damage. Natasha summoned the rage she'd been feeling towards Clint last night—not rage truly, but raw hurt was damn close, and she'd been taught to channel both. Belova was taken aback by the sudden emotion in her eyes, because she fell back at the extra power of the blow, sending her into the naked wall behind her. Based on her expression, she hadn't even realized she'd backed away in the duration of her defense.

'Keep aware of yourself.' It was a lesson she'd been taught so early in life that she doubted when it had actually been. As Belova read her lips, recognition (or at least suspicion) seemed to enter her features—but Natasha gave her no room for epiphanies. Yelena's moment of wavering gave her a perfect opportunity to breathe life into an old move that the Widow had always patented. She swung herself in an arch, her thighs locking around the girl's slender neck, knocking her to the ground.

Yelena, identifying and recognizing the telltale move, obviously having been promised it as her own, widened her eyes in fear and disbelief. She heaved after air.

' _I might be mute_ ,' Natasha started icily, mouthing Russian as she stared down at the girl with something else than—but close to—condescension, ' _but never make the mistake of underestimating me._ '

Yelena gasped hoarsely, admitting defeat as she'd been disarmed by the fighting style alone. "You're _her_." She gasped like a child faced with the bogeyman, or the second-best thing, the nightmare of every girl in Red Room—Natasha certainly had been, when she'd been Belova. "Black Widow."

'No,' Natasha replied coldly, removing her metallic fingers from the girl's forehead in a gentle caress that was anything but, and the next thing she said was far more terrorizing. 'But you're _me._ '


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?
> 
> In which Natasha trains her successor, accepts her Red Room responsibility and deals with the Takahashi problem, only to face doubts and a far more real danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The contents of this chapter might be a little bit disturbing. I won't lie, it will involve dismemberment. I have tried to skate over it as idly as possible, but if you think I should change the rating, let me know. It's not gonna be a frequent feature, though. I have tried to avoid gory details, but if you get queasy from reading about it, this is the warning.
> 
> I REPEAT: this chapter features dismemberment of live human beings.

_Rome, Italy_

_\- The next day_

'Lesson one: curiosity gets you killed,' Natasha mouthed as she pulled Yelena to her feet. 'Lesson two: curiosity ensures your survival.'

Although the words and concept couldn't have been new to Yelena, the young assassin frowned. She was wary of Natasha's sudden change in demeanor, though, something for which Natasha was pleased. Since yesterday's realizations, Yelena looked at Natasha with different eyes, as if Natasha had her entire attention and had earned it, too.

"How does that wo—," Yelena began, but Natasha cut her off.

'Don't question the rules. Do you question survival?' she asked pointedly.

Yelena pondered the question. "No."

Natasha nodded, pleased with the answer. 'Good. Now, resume.'

Both Russians picked up the _eskrima_ sticks. They were fairly easy to maintain and keep a hold of, and could be deadly in the hands of a trained user. Natasha intended to teach her young protégé the craft—not the art, as time was not endless and hastily cut short by news—to prepare her for future fights. After overcoming her surprise at Natasha's identity, she'd reluctantly told her the story of what had happened in Germany. It seemed poor hand-to-hand combat training and coordination had been to blame—something that Natasha strived to correct for reasons she wasn't entirely ready to admit.

Desta had sent news and ordered Nikolaevna to remain in Rome and for Belova to remain with her. The Bastard, unsurprisingly, was told the same. To his credit, he kept his promise, sticking to the shadows and background and making no presumptuous comments about Clint's—whom he assumed to be a local—nightly exodus or the raised but thankfully muffled voices he'd heard.

The sticks collided time upon time, and Yelena's technique improved until her arms quaked with exertion, but her eyes flared with the will to learn. Hours had passed in the meantime, and Natasha paused the sparring lesson, retiring to the water bottles they had placed alongside the wall. Yelena, embracing the pause, slid down the wall and gulped the contents of the bottle greedily. Natasha stopped her, causing the girl to look at her questionably.

'Don't drink like a thirsting man. Adapt your body to low rations. That way, when it's no longer available, you'll last longer,' Natasha told her, sipping mildly from the bottle.

Yelena nodded hesitantly, drinking in her words and knowledge. She didn't worship Natasha, but she had realized and acknowledged that she needed Natasha's knowledge and experience to learn; not to mention she was still being punished for her incompetence in Germany.

'How long?' Natasha asked, piercing the silence. She'd been wondering. Red Room's last known facility had been taken down five years ago. It had been one of her last S.H.I.E.L.D. missions, but she'd made sure there would be no resurrections. 'How long have you been on your own?'

"Three years," Yelena admitted, obviously not comfortable discussing it. "The first two years a man from… there… took me with him, continued my training. He left. An orphanage took me in, but I ran away when I realized I wasn't like the rest."

_That they weren't trained killers_. 'How old are you really?' Natasha's stern look ordered honesty, even if whatever age Yelena had come up with had been accepted by Desta and her peers.

"Sixteen."

Natasha felt a surge of anger go through her. Jesus, she'd been expected to face this girl. Could she have killed her, if she'd faced the Belova Red Room had trained to be the Black Widow? She did a lot of things for survival, but having glimpsed into the (however screwed up) girl Yelena was, the thought sickened her more than some of her past transgressions. The girl had to have killed, but yet she remained innocent under that hardened exterior. She blamed Clint—and what happened—for her sudden compassion and instability in her emotions. Yelena knew her as Nikolaevna, a former Black Widow, although she seemed unsure of which one.

"Yesterday, you said…" Yelena paused, switching into Russian because she could, as she had a tendency to do when she thought of Red Room. Natasha had noticed. " _You said I was you_."

Natasha inhaled slowly. She mentally berated herself for not having remembered that Yelena's mind would have been trained from early childhood to remember things and recall with clarity, memorizing even the most unimportant of details. As the Bastard, she was perceptive, but it was in a different kind of way. She had no answer to give the girl truly. It could not be demanded of her to tell what she'd done, but yet she was surprised to find Yelena insidious. Did she not realize that she had merely been one amongst many, and that the process had not been unique or novel? That there was only one graduate per process, but that it had been repeated beyond imagination?

'I started out as you once—younger, even,' she mouthed, thinking of the 1930s and how close Yelena's training came to hers. Not enough differed. She was not about to tell the girl that she'd been a slave to Red Room spanning decades due to scientifically artificial and biological enhancement. Had there been Black Widows since she defected? She hadn't encountered any, but that did not mean that none had come into existence. Then again, perhaps the selection process had become more difficult, considering there were no longer abundant groups of Soviet girls volunteered or taken from the breasts of their mothers as babes. Secrecy was valuable indeed, perhaps enough of a covetable trait to be patient.

'Do you remember a time before them? At all?' Natasha asked, her eyes softening in absentmindedness as she remembered. She didn't consider Yelena's response if one were to be seen. 'If so, then I envy you and pity you all the same. _If_ ,' – and she used _if_ because granted, Yelena would never reach her age, and fate had a tendency to be cruel towards the lifespans of assassins; _when_ would be a word too kind to use, and Natasha was never kind – 'you reach my age, they will be all you remember. The hours and days and months of hurting and of growing stronger, of rising above. You know what I'm speaking of.'

Yelena had grown silent, not slumberous. She rubbed her wrists absentmindedly. "What about you? How long did you…?" The girl eventually trailed off, uncertain of which word to use. Indeed, what words could describe the service demanded of the Black Widows?

Natasha laughed bitterly and wordlessly. It burned all the way down her throat. Oh, the irony that she now, too, was filling this girl with words of lies, and that she yet never had been so honest with anybody whose tale was so similar. 'For a very long time, they told me I was their _vdova_. They even made me one, for all intents and purposes.'

Only sadness could be seen before it was replaced by hardness. Yelena stiffened by her side, obviously having drawn some conclusion of her own. Natasha putted the bottle down, now capped, and hesitantly grabbed the younger girl's knee—she knew better than to restrain, even if benignly, a hand, and thereby a quarter of the limbs used for fighting—in shy comfort. "I always knew there were others—others more likely to survive. Those were my sisters, whom I knew would one day probably kill me during training."

'I am no sister of yours,' Natasha said darkly. _I am the mirror image you should never try to imitate. I made all the bad decisions, although there is one I don't regret making. Not until now when I realized it is the one that made them target you_. Her choice to deflect—although the word choice was debatable—had caused Red Room to fervently search for a girl to replace her. A new Black Widow who wouldn't make the same mistakes. 'And you would know better to never know my name.'

Yelena eyed her strangely as if not comprehending. Red Room was gone, but the bogeyman wasn't. Two Widows remained. Or the ghost of such, and a potential candidate. "They tell about you," the brunette blurted. "The older girls." Her face saddened as the blush faded. "They _told_ about you, I s'pose. They're all dead now."

_I will not take the blame for that. The girls you mention died in combat. It is about the most honorable death they could get_. Natasha had less guilt towards her actions that had essentially and eventually meant the deaths of these girls whom Yelena had dubbed sisters. Not all had died by her hand, or gun, or even command. Some must have died during training or later missions. S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't responsible for the takedowns of every bad guy in the book, just a certain percentage.

'The dead do not speak of the dead,' Natasha mouthed and got up, deciding that the time for such intimate discussions was past.

"Wait, Romanova—," Yelena called out, but would have wished she wouldn't. She actually gulped when she saw Natasha's reaction.

She snapped. Her eyes breathed fire and ice like a wrathful dragon. Many a men would have cowered under the glare, but Yelena merely squirmed. She was _not_ Romanova; she was not Romanoff, and she certainly wasn't about to have the name resurrected by a foolish girl. Her expression might have been murderous. ' _Nikolaevna_ ,' she corrected icily and threw the sticks at her, which the girl caught with an almost frightened expression. 'And that will be all you ever call me. I am not Natalia Romanova.'

_Not anymore_ , the serpentine whisper of the past told her.

_That's bullshit, Tasha. You are who you've always been. You've made some bad choices_. Clint's words echoed in her head. She blinked forcefully and turned.

Yelena swallowed hard and, Natasha could see, pretended not to see the fuming anger in Natasha's eyes. "Nikolaevna, then." She smiled as she mused. "The name of a czarina."

However unwelcomed and unprepared for such comment, Natasha couldn't help but smile slowly behind the girl's back.

\- 

_Rome, Italy_

_\- One day later_

\- 

Sometimes she wondered if observation was the only true alternative to dormant muteness. If not so, she certainly did a lot of seemingly pointless observation. Not pointless, she corrected herself, simply less than rewarding compared to her former ways. She remembered a time where she had thoughtlessly killed without making a sound when she could have used it to seek new victims. She had stalked the enemies of her employers with disregard, not giving the power of speech—and how to manipulate it fully—a single moment's appreciation. She sighed with reprieve; no, targeting and singling out Takahashi required speech, a tool that she was left without.

Natasha had been hesitant of her own proposal, weighing her options in her head, the pros and cons of each scenario. In the end, it had been an adequate punishment for Belova, who had endured three days of Natasha's mentorship. Takahashi would be Yelena's for the taking, and Natasha would merely be an observer of the shadows. She would see to it that Yelena, on her own, would make sure she remained nameless by making sure Takahashi told no tales and whispered no rumors, especially to the eyes of Interpol and S.I.D. and _Clint Barton_.

Yelena Belova would succeed where Natasha could not.

Natasha was still not quite sure how to feel towards Clint's betrayal. The part of her which felt no anger was relieved, but regretful of the way, that Clint was finally firmly shunned from her life as Nikolaevna; that he had seen part truths and left before he could realize that she wasn't going to change; that her life as the scum he'd accused her of being was as permanent as the word 'permanent' implied. She owed a debt that was breathing and living, growing with each tussle. Clint had never truly understood the ties she had with her debts, and she would therefore always shield from him the truth of her situation. By removing him, she'd spared him unimaginable heartache. Loving came too easy when it came to Clint—loving should never come easy to a person like her. Hating, as it was, was an inevitable follower. In all her years as an assassin, hatred had only been possible when she'd simultaneously allowed herself to love, even gently and volatilely, or in denial.

Clint had been a terribly successful master when it came to caring. He made it hard not to; made it hard to be sufficient and expressionless. He wouldn't last long in Tarpeius, even if he made friends. Leons were brothers, in arms and in comradeship. She was more of an exception than a rule—hadn't she always been?

Natasha fell back into her casual spot on a café. The evening was chill for the season but she needed no coat although it was late. She was feigning reading a newspaper, occasionally scouting for the Japanese ex-officer. The Bastard was chatting up some Italians across the street, conversationally so, and Belova, tonight's decoy and bait, had been forced into a more age appropriate outfit—forced because of the girl's grimace upon being instructed to dig up an outfit that would suffice and subsequent puzzlement, for the girl had none nor the desire to dress as what she'd referred to as a 'stuck-up, whiny tramp with superiority complexes'. Regardless, Natasha had impatiently gone shopping with the girl, discussing the terms of silencing Takahashi Masao's bird tweets. It had felt utterly ridiculous and snarky, since Yelena had not—and did not—share Natasha's fondness for dressing up and becoming a different part.

The sixteen-year-old seemed adamant to remain Natasha's second shadow, something that troubled the older operative less due to her breakup. _Breakup_ —the word was too sweet, too soap opera, like she and Clint had been high school students and not treacherous lovers. She missed him, but she couldn't love him. These past five years had jaded her beyond recognition in regards to the Black Widow, and perhaps also in regards to S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Natasha Romanov. To be honest, she wasn't sure of what Clint saw in her; part of her never could see the same woman he claimed to see, but he accepted the person behind all the masks and aliases, so she left him be, enjoying his companionship more than anything. It was her fault for becoming ensnared in the illusion, her mistake. Focusing on Yelena's training was a nice distraction—one she thoroughly embraced.

Natasha had never taken part of the actual training of the girls who were to be trained as Widows after her, but she'd selected and overseen the facilities and faculty leaders. She'd been glorified as an assassin within Red Room, enough so that the girls still whispered of her in the corners. Well, no longer, Natasha thought with relatively little remorse. She felt terrible for ending the lives of so many, but it could not be helped. Nikolaevna wouldn't feel remorseful, so she could not allow herself to be.

_They're criminals. They're scums. You know what that makes you? Yeah, you do… You know what Interpol thinks of you, because you've thought the same, don't deny it!_

Natasha swallowed hard and skimmed the sports section again. It seemed the local soccer team was doing well…

_What, waiting for your goons to come finish it off? Tell me this isn't true. Tell me you're working for someone. Not the guys in there!_

Her fingers shook in response to the haunting words and she hated how much they affected her. She swallowed firmly—again—and wanted to banish them, but found herself unable. She cursed her accurate memory with fervor and turned the page. Clint had acted as her second conscience—the first had quickly been put down in Red Room—for too long. His sentiments regarding her employers and whom she socialized with were unnecessary, cruel, and oughtn't to mean so much. He was a leaf in the autumn that S.H.I.E.L.D. had been to her. However, he was the only leaf that stuck so passionately and cared. Not that leaves cared, but Clint did, damn he did.

Then she caught a glance of a familiar Japanese face and expelled these thoughts instantly. One thing was wondering about Clint when she had the time, another was letting it ruin her work. She signaled the Bastard, who seemed to have noticed, too, before resuming her duty as observant. Takahashi weaved through the crowd, and upon first glance, he looked no different than your standard immigrant or tourist, but Natasha was taught to dig deeper, and so she easily spotted the signs of severe stress and mental exhaustion. Insanity was not far. Perhaps whoever had diagnosed his psychotic breakdown hadn't been that wrong. Desperation only got you so far, and Leons played a cruel game of shadows.

Yelena hunted unnoticeably with remarkable abilities as an actress. She played the part of a 'stuck-up whiny tramp (with superior complexes)' well. She had also spent three hours observing the behavior of Italian teenagers, so it didn't surprise Natasha completely. Red Room had trained her well but hadn't had the time to finish until Natasha had come with the metaphorical torch. Her intimate knowledge of Red Room's training process had enabled her to see to it that Red Room never ruined more lives. If she got the chance, she'd ask about the man who had continued Yelena's training. He wouldn't have left her willingly, and had most likely died, but Natasha disliked the prospect of leaving survivors—or having someone, especially an unfriendly, who could recognize her roaming this world.

The girl portrayed the role of a silly-headed girl well, giggling and blushing appropriately. Belova wasn't the asset Natasha had been, mainly due to her youth and the untimely downfall of Red Room. She was exactly what her appearance insinuated: inexperienced. Another aspect where they differed was that she lacked beauty. It took a woman, or a child's innocence, to be beautiful. Her genetics simply opposed her where they strengthened her skills, and there was little Red Room had been able to do about it. Many of Natasha's "sisters" had been beautiful, but beauty insured no favor in the training ring, and Red Room had been satisfied when their crown jewel, graduate of their wicked tests, was someone whose prettiness could be cultivated into beauty. Belova would never see that, hopefully. Natasha would see to it that she survived, but she wouldn't train Yelena to seduce for the purpose of killing. Nobody deserved that skillset, that terrible privilege and burden.

_Am I genuinely feeling this or am I deceiving myself?_ Natasha had asked herself many times upon deflection. She had become so well a seductress, a manipulator, that she wondered if she fooled herself, too. She wouldn't want that for Yelena. Yelena was her Natasha, her chance to do good, even by bestowing skillsets of destruction upon a teenage girl. She hadn't corrupted Yelena—Red Room had. Red Room wasn't there to finish, and for some reason, Natasha had accepted that job.

If Yelena thought these things, she didn't share, and Nikolaevna was fine with that as she wanted her recent protégé hunt with the allure of a confused teen lost in a big city. Takahashi was paranoid at first, but politeness towards a young stranger, especially a pretty brunette who gazed at him so wide-eyed, overruled whatever he'd been doing. Natasha watched them until they were out of sight, waiting two minutes until she rose from the café chair, folding and abandoning the newspaper. She'd given the Bastard orders to remain at his post for five more minutes, so she was alone as she made her way to the arranged alleyway where Takahashi would realize Yelena's trap.

As the noise of the crowd faded in the narrow alleyway, Natasha looked straight ahead, zigzagging around dumpsters that partially obscured the view. Rapid Italian soon filled her ears.

"— _sorry, sir, but I really thought that this was the way my brother ran_ —." Yelena's distress sounded real, and her acting skills had convinced the Japanese. Really, it was the oldest trick in the book. Get a young attractive girl in front of a man and he'll consider it. Natasha had been in the business long enough to know it didn't solely work with men, but with women too. Lust was a tool of manipulation, as was innocence.

"Senorita, this obviously isn't—," Takahashi began, but then he sensed the dark presence in the alley. Natasha stepped into view, and suddenly, the least of his worries was Yelena. Natasha's hands were at her sides, docile, harmless, but he recognized the look of an intelligence officer, of an assassin—of someone who could easily kill him.

He made the mistake of thinking Natasha had been sent to kill him.

Which was probably why he didn't see the kick to his stomach, an adolescent leg crashing against his abdominal muscles. Neither of the Russian women flinched. Natasha had known the blow would come, and Yelena had used force and combined it with the element of surprise. He fell down, and Natasha wondered if Yelena had strayed his solar plexus. Probably not, but he looked breathless either way, wheezing.

Yelena moved to lock her arm around his neck, movements quick and doubtless. Natasha walked closer, the image of equanimity, each step registered by the sound click of each heel. She unzipped her jumper to expose the scarred skin and watched Takahashi's eyes widen in recognition. Her scar had become her identity to friends and foes alike. She didn't need to unholster her gun to frighten the man who claimed to know so much—and probably did—about Leonum Tarpeius.

He struggled against Yelena's hold and used his head to crack against her skull, sending her backwards as he raised his aching body from the dirty ground, trying to control his breaths. He looked at her, demanding a reason, expecting some kind of villainously arrogant share of Tarpeius' plans. She would give him none and perform no interrogation.

Upon realizing she wouldn't charge towards him, Takahashi focused on his attacker—Yelena, who had the agile speed of a youngster. She'd grabbed a nearby pipe that would make a useful replacement of the eskrima sticks even if the balance of the material was different, its weight heavier. Before Takahashi could acquire a makeshift weapon of his own, she swung it in a controlled arch, straying his chin and sending him tottering backwards.

He spat blood out on the asphalt as he recovered. Natasha watched the fight as someone watched a tennis match. She knew who'd win. Takahashi's gun lay scattered on the ground behind her, and Natasha had armed Yelena with a retractable machete that, when extended fully, was a formidable weapon when opposed with human flesh. She no longer eagerly itched for fights—although she had no problem with fighting—like Yelena did, and was no pacifist, but watching was dull compared to the rush of adrenaline. She thought of her latest fight, not counting the sparring sessions with the young Widow, with the man in Berlin who'd slashed his weapon and harmed her shallowly. That wound had almost healed and she didn't need bandages any longer.

"I was right," Takahashi gasped like a madman as his arm was held back with all Yelena's strength, popping out of its joint. "You exis— _argh!_ "

He screamed as his attacker pulled harder, forcing him to the ground in defeat, her leg pressed into his back. His neck was craned to avoid getting dirt into his mouth. Personally, Natasha thought they were doing him a favor. Insanity wasn't pretty, but obsession was definitely ugly. Insane obsession like Takahashi's had ruined his life. His wife had divorced him early in this endeavor. He had no children or extended family. His mother was in a retirement home. This needed to be done.

Yelena pulled out the machete and spoke, the gullibility banished from her voice. In its place was the girl who'd received training as an assassin since the age of five. "Takahashi Masao, have you heard the story of the boy who cried wolf? It seems you should."

Takahashi let out a wail of disbelief and pain as the machete cut through ligament and flesh. A quick chopping sound was heard. Yelena's strength was impressive. It wasn't easy to calmly dismember someone. The severed hand rolled sloppily until it hit the wall of the alleyway. Yelena removed her foot from the wrist and Takahashi immediately clutched it to his chest, dyeing the shirt red.

"Are you _insane_?" he hissed, his mind going into shock.

"Shh. Not done yet," Yelena said, exchanging gazes with Natasha. Maybe killing Takahashi would have been more merciful, but Tarpeius rarely was. Another cry pierced the alley, but was drowned by the traffic and hum of chatter. Only as the other hand had been severed from its arm did Natasha step forward and reach for Yelena's machete. If the girl felt squeamish, she didn't show it. Chris, was she really forcing a sixteen-year-old to do this?

_Organized crime? Europe? What happened to wanting to live a normal life, huh?_

_That was your dream. Never mine._

_You left S.H.I.E.L.D. so you could go off and join these people? Murderers and terrorists?_

_"She's Desta's for God's sake. Do you think she'd be here if he hadn't told her to?"_

Natasha shook her head, forcing these memories back. Her hands were quick, her eyes never straying the man's, as she knelt down, holding the man's head back so his struggle was at a minimum. She braced herself for the guttural cries she'd experience. This was never pretty. With a sigh, she mouthed, not really caring if he'd understand, 'This will hurt less if you don't move.'

His breath was ragged and labored and he was afraid. Natasha could only comfort herself with the fact that Yelena took no pleasure from this. She was no sadist. Natalia had been. Yelena and Natasha were okay with enduring and watching people endure pain. No pleasure was taken, no intervention occurred. The world continued turning and spinning, regardless of the horrible deaths of its inhabitants.

Then she brought the knife she'd conjured from her pocket into his mouth, found the slimy spot she was looking for, and cut. Takahashi's body stilled before panicking utterly, but his struggle only furthered the blood loss as the crimson fluid gushed from his mouth along with the dismembered and eternally lost organ. Natasha rose before she could get her pants bloodied, and saw the Bastard approach per prior instruction and arrangement.

'We're done here,' she announced, pocketing the knife and handing Yelena back the machete. She'd used it, she would clean it—or discard it, whatever she favored. 'Good job.'

It was shallow praise, but Yelena nodded anyway. She understood that there was no joke in death, a lesson that would do her well. Mild disgust showed on the Bastard's face as he took in the bloody alley and the rasping Takahashi, but he soon smirked. "Just a girl's night out, huh?" he jested.

"Should we take his phone?" Yelena asked, and for the first time tonight, doubt and insecurity was to be traced in her voice.

'I don't see how he would use it,' Natasha stated dryly. The man had lost both hands and his tongue—and would probably die from blood loss before he could summon help, much less communicate.

"He might have it connected to his skydrive," the Bastard reminded her.

'Take it and destroy it,' Natasha said. Yelena complied but paused as she bent down to the Japanese man. Her hesitation didn't last long, however, before she dug into his pocket and retrieved his personal items, wallet, phone, keys. She discarded the first and the latter, but kept the phone, aptly removing the cover and taking the card, disassembling it and discarding the pieces as the made their way from the dumpstered alley. She handed the SIM card to Natasha.

"How about we go grab some food?" the Bastard suggested casually.

Both glanced to her for approval. Natasha thought about it. They hadn't eaten for three hours, but she wasn't particularly hungry. If the Bastard was after seeing the alley, it was his problem. Nevertheless, eating would be a nice distraction. 'You go ahead. Takeout only.'

Yelena smiled a small smile and Natasha smiled back, although she wasn't sure why. The Bastard followed, and again, Natasha saw a couple of goofy siblings, not professional killers that had just dismembered a man to silence him. Desta knew that taking a person's speech wasn't enough to silence them, and therefore the hands had been necessary, too. If he ever regained the ability to communicate—and didn't die in the alley—doctors would blame the trauma for his incoherent accusations.

She ungloved her right hand to deal with the heat and blood that had gotten through its seams and didn't see the dart fly by before she felt its sedatives enter her bloodstream with a small prick. She fought the effects futilely before someone grabbed for her before she hit the ground as she passed out.

_Dammit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm really sorry if I've traumatized anyone. My friend has read some of this chapter and helped me rate this story. It's my first time with AO3 rating system, so please bear with me.
> 
> On the other hand, those of you whom I haven't now scared off, all FFN published chapters are now on AO3 and will be updated almost simultaneously.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?
> 
> Clint struggles within the taskforce that hunts for Leonum Tarpeius members and discovers the mess Natasha has created of his life. Meanwhile, Belova seeks out allies in her search for Natasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with another update! This chapter is a break from the last one and the angst and violence next chapter will entail.

_Rome, Italy_

There were times when Clint Barton thought he was a total jerk, and then there were times when Clint Barton thought his partner was a goddamn _asshole_. He’d forgotten that aspect of his partnership to Natasha, and he’d felt it firsthand three days ago. His sorry ass still couldn’t believe it was real and had actually happened. 

“Barton, do you see the Minsk report—?” The agent in question—one of Leclerc’s, by the name of Pierschke—made hand gesticulations as if searching for the right word. He looked around, presumably trying to locate the Minsk report. 

Clint grabbed for the manila folder he’d put atop a pile thirty minutes ago and handed it to the German agent. “Here,” he said.

Pierschke leaned against the desk Clint had been offered, opening and skimming the report. Willing to procrastinate from returning to the boring work of reviewing dozens of reported incidents, Clint watched him. Interpol was similar to S.I.D., but the taskforce operated almost independently. Leclerc certainly knew how to hijack a public building for the housing of his team. The archer had spent half the day brushing up on Leonum Tarpeius, aided by the multiple reports on the reasonably unknown group. He’d been introduced to the mostly German taskforce of which Pierschke was a member, being an ex-cop turned agent. It felt strange, being part of a unit, but he and Rosario managed. Two extra sets of hands weren’t unappreciated. 

Since his third report Clint had been wondering how the hell the L.T. had gone unnoticed by S.I.D., by him. Then it turned out that another S.I.D. agent had been assigned to the taskforce for the past year—an agent Clint knew rather well. 

Benedetta Guido had been Jameson’s condition to allowing the troublesome Hawkeye entrance to his agency, aside from a rather persistent request from Director Fury. Robb Jameson was the de jure director of S.I.D., when _really_ , he took most orders from S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Council and was left to be pissed heartless about Fury’s decisions. Guido had been Jameson’s condition and Clint’s key. After six months of being an antisocial asshole, he’d been dragged into a meeting that was mostly scolding and been assigned Agent Benedetta Guido, two years out of training, but less green than most. 

She was of medium height and weight and had been indifferent to his unique preferences of Paleolithic weaponry. She was pretty good with a rifle herself but nowhere near his caliber or his age. Inevitably she’d gone out on her own and had most recently landed in the taskforce, the only Italian on the seven-man but ever expanding team. It was due to her job as a liaison that S.I.D. had received their intel—the intel Clint hadn’t considered in Vienna. 

Leclerc himself, despite his easygoingness towards and among his agents, was nowhere in sight. “Where’s Leclerc?” Clint asked casually, tapping the end of the pencil against the stack of papers, drumming an inconsequential rhythm. God, he missed his arrows sometimes; the sweet symphony of flight and release, a rhythm as familiar as his own heartbeat in his ears after the rush of adrenaline.

Pierschke shrugged nonchalantly and closed the manila folder. “I do not know. He left about an hour ago—had a meeting with some lunatic who claimed to know a lot about the Tarps.”

Each agent had a name for the Leonum Tarpeius; Pierschke’s was “the Tarps” and Clint wasn’t going to be bothered by it. It sure beat having to say the whole mouthful each time. He was skeptic, though. “Lunatic?”

“Leclerc took him seriously. He might have been speaking the truth,” Pierschke said. “He was some sort of intelligence officer from Asia—Japan, I think. He seemed frantic. I was there when Leclerc read his email.”

Clint didn’t like not knowing where Leclerc had gone—maybe due to Natasha’s presence within the city, if she hadn’t left already. Two of Leclerc’s men were in Germany searching for her alter ego, the anonymous shadow. Clint had half the sense to report her, but something resembling affection held him back. Whatever little remorse Natasha felt wouldn’t increase by penalty or imprisonment. She’d seen too much to have such mindset. As to what had prompted such mindset in him, he couldn’t tell. 

“Oh well, even if he is crazy, we will probably get lucky in Vienna,” Pierschke murmured casually, flipping additionally though the pages before closing the report.

“Vienna?” Clint questioned, dumbfounded. He hadn’t heard anything about Vienna—aside from his personal experience from there. Nothing he’d mentioned to Leclerc, of course. He’d told Leclerc what he’d told Rosario—and subsequently, S.I.D.

“Yeah, you have not heard?” the Interpol agent—although Clint wasn’t totally sure he was Interpol, just that he backed Leclerc’s methods and had been assigned to the taskforce—said like it was common knowledge, and perhaps it was – within the taskforce members. Clint was the rookie in their midst, and although Leclerc had meant it when he’d said he appreciated another set of hands, it was rather obvious that they considered Clint their inferior in terms of hierarchy and knowledge about the Tarps. Clint hadn’t done enough to convince them otherwise. “Leclerc sent Jürgen and a crew to storm that chemical plant you reported. Honestly I don’t know why he waited so long, but… he calls the shots.”

Pierschke shrugged nonchalantly. Clint remembered the morning he’d told Leclerc about the Viennese warehouse-slash-chemical plant. Leclerc had been pissed when he’d heard that, having not been informed that Leonum Tarpeius had a base of operations there. It had felt strange—actively working against Tasha. Then again, she’d urged him to “go do his job”. It had never felt more bittersweet. “Lemme know how that goes.”

Pierschke raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think they’ll get the job done? These guys are good, Barton.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” Clint rushed to say. “I just don’t know if the intel is still valid. It’s been weeks. I thought he knew so I didn’t say anything.”

“I’d say you ought to know better, but you’ve been browsing a year’s worth of reports, so I’d rather pity you. It’s not much success compared to the paperwork.”

Clint felt bad for being satisfied that things weren’t going well and instantly felt guilty. “Yeah, no big fish to fry. Leclerc seems pretty hooked on that woman, though.” He feigned ignorance.

“Oh yeah,” Pierschke said with a knowing smirk. “He’s obsessed, alright. The girl gets more attention than his wife.”

“Girl?” Clint repeated, mostly to himself in amusement. Natasha was more than just a girl—way deadlier, way more mature, and to some extent, sadly way too burdened. Besides, she’d been trained _old school_. Nothing was as cruelly efficient as old school methods to eliminate immaturity and innocence. 

“Reports suggest she’s between the ages of twenty to thirty years old. Pretty unbelievable but what can you say. It’s a cruel world,” Pierschke mused, shrugging.

“What reports?”

“Eye witness statements from Leipzig mostly. They mainly concern one of the Tarps, though, a younger girl they used as bait. Brutal, man, brutal.”

“I saw that in a report somewhere,” Clint said, looking about to dig in the piles and stacks of papers and manila folders. “…Yes, here it is. Leipzig, Deutschland.” He skimmed the paragraph. “Wait, eighteen years old? That’s…” 

He paled when he couldn’t find a word beyond sickening. The life of organized crime tended to make people appear older. If she’d been estimated to being eighteen, she was probably younger. Clint forced himself to ignore the sympathy growing in his chest. This girl had chosen this herself, just like Natasha had. Natasha had chosen to join the Tarps; nobody had forced her. At least, he hoped not, God, he hoped not.

A knock on the cubicle alerted both Pierschke and Clint to an eavesdropper, an additional presence within the confines of the room. The latter looked up from the Leipzig report and brightened remotely when he recognized Guido, Hawkeye’s latest—and _only_ —S.I.D. protégé. 

“Hey boys,” she greeted confidently, bouncy. If Clint hadn’t known better, he’d have accused her of being peppy, but he knew it was more likely a product of being cooped up for too long. “Barton, wanna go grab some lunch? There’s a place down the corner that serves crêpes,” she tempted teasingly.

“I have to go anyway,” Pierschke excused himself. “The Vienna crew should arrive in two hours’ time on location. Be back beforehand,” he advised.

Clint nodded as he watched the German make his departure. Guido looked at him questionably. “What was that about?” she asked, leaning on Clint’s desk casually with a bored look on her face.

She hadn’t changed much, she’d merely gained another notch on the belt. Experience looked good on Guido whose name flatteringly meant “life”. She certainly was lively but that didn’t make her a bad agent. 

“Oh, Leclerc sent some guy and a crew to the Viennese chemical plant to raid the place,” Clint explained while he gathered his wallet and jacket. 

“You don’t say,” Guido replied absentmindedly with a strange look on her face as she stood. “Anyway, best to get there before the tourists do.”

Clint groaned at the thought of more confused masses of people who habitually took up space—mental and physical—at most restaurants and cafes. Benedetta, a local, was amused at his irritation considering his own citizenship (to which Clint had argued that he rarely behaved like a tourist unless it gave him an advantage). “No more tourists!” he whined. 

Guido winked and laughed—not a girly giggle but a real laugh between comrades. “I’m kidding, no? I know this place a couple of blocks from here. _Alimento Saporito._ It means—“

“—Tasty food, yeah, I get it,” he interjected blandly with a light smile.

Guido blushed modestly at her moment of forgetfulness. He’d never been a natural at linguistics, but he possessed no disadvantages either—not like Natasha did. Italian was fairly easy language when you knew other Romance languages (not that there was anything romantic about them if you asked him). Still, Guido was so used to being asked what Italian phrases meant—it was easier than looking it up if she was nearby, be it work-related or not, colloquial phrases, street names, or traditional customs. It was how pulling together resources worked—if it had been archery, Clint would have been asked. However, this was lunch, and Clint hadn’t asked. 

“Your Italian has improved,” she noted and that was it, simple and unembarrassed. With a quick swipe in the security key scanner, they left the legally seized building and headed for Alimento Saporito, Guido’s candidate for lunchtime meals. 

“Alcuni,” Clint replied with a shrug. _Some_. It was the same reply he’d given Natasha. He had brushed up on his languages in the past five years, but not with fervor. Soon, they neared a cozy-looking place whose façade read the Italian for “tasty foods” according to Clint’s knowledge. They sat down at the first table with the best overview—occupational habit, Clint supposed. In their six months together, they had learnt the other’s habits and Guido had even adopted some from Clint, who now recognized his own. The only change was that Guido now had the confidence to entrust her habits and instincts. She checked her phone before looking up.

“I don’t see any crêpes,” Clint remarked after conferring with the menu. He had suspected it.

“Sure they do,” Guido replied and summoned the waitress. Rapid Italian flowed from her lips, Clint recognizing only ‘ _crespella_ ’, the Italian equivalent of crêpe. He paid attention to body language and his own assessments of the conversation rather than its topic value. After exchanging words, the waitress nodded curtly and Guido looked possibly triumphant.

“Let me guess,” Clint began with a growing smirk. “They _do_ serve crêpes, regardless of what the menu says.”

Guido didn’t look up from her phone, fingertips swiping across the buttons to assemble a message. “You sound so proud.”

“Nah, it’s totally fine, Guido, I am proud. What’s not to be proud of? You’re turning resourceful,” Clint teased.

“ _Dio_ , Barton, you’re beginning to sound like my papa,” his ex protégé groaned.

“Your papa’s dead,” he pointed out matter-of-factly; he knew Guido to have processed the fact years ago. She hadn’t been that close to her biological father, nor had he. Fathers weren’t a touchy subject, never had been. Nor had it been one easily discussed.

She grimaced and put her phone down. “You know what I mean.”

“Are you implying I’m dead to you?” Clint asked in mockery, feigning offense. Guido didn’t bite, merely gave him a look of unimpressed attitude.

Benedetta Guido grinned and laughed heartily, laughter still strained with absentmindedness. “Anything but, Hawkeye.”

\- 

After eating lunch—and _crespellas_ , of which Guido ate two and bore witness to the consumption of five—they returned to the taskforce central in one of several Roman public courts, which had been temporarily relocated or shut down, depending on the division. Clint had no idea how Leclerc had gained access or permission to do that, but when he came back, he’d lost all opportunity. The office was abuzz, lit with life as if the tedious desk zombies had been spelled into alert. Clint doubted this, having seen magic (however real it could be defined), and grabbed the nearest clerk-looking agent. 

“Hey, what’s up?” he inquired, adopting a stern look as he wiped the last grease from the meal off in a napkin, which he discarded into a trashcan. 

“Leclerc called,” the younger man replied, voice franticly stressed as if he had no idea what he should do. He eyed Clint and Guido. “The taskforce’s assembling last I heard.”

The two S.I.D. agents quickly exchanged looks and unisonously walked to the conference room whose prior usage Clint was clueless as to. The group was gathered around the speakerphone, Leclerc’s second-in-command closest. Leclerc’s sit-rep and orders filled Clint’s ears. 

“… _\-- examiner states time of death to be three hours ago. I want agents on scene. Denisov, Clegg… Barton, too. Pierschke and Guido stand by for Vienna to check in._ ”

‘What happened?’ Clint mouthed at Pierschke, who caught his message and read his lips. Clint tried not to draw any parallels. 

“Lunatic’s dead,” Pierschke replied solemnly. Clint suddenly understood the glum mood. One thing was to joke around with the sanity and trustworthiness of a flaky ex-officer; another was finding him dead, which Clint assumed was what had happened when Leclerc had gone to meet him. 

The second-in-command broke in, glancing at Rosario. “What about the rest of us?”

“ _I need you to gear up and be ready_ ,” Leclerc growled. “ _Somebody silenced Takahashi for a reason. I want to know what he knew. Clegg’s got investigative training and Barton knows how to hunt._ ” 

The tone said, _don’t question me_ , as if his second was about to. He wasn’t. 

Clint, Denisov, and Clegg geared up. Denisov had gotten the address from Leclerc, and Clint was happy to register that he didn’t know it. It wasn’t close to where Natasha’s apartment was, and he wasn’t sure what he’d have done if it had been. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t accept a call by now, least of all from him. An anonymous tipper would be suspicious on both parts. 

The trio arrived on the scene of the crime half an hour later and had to weave through quite the crowd on onlookers to near and dive under the police tape. Uniformed officers held back the more curious bystanders, but luckily dumpsters were ‘naturally’ occurring obstacles in the way of people’s line of sight. Armed with his S.I.D. badge and taskforce badge, Clint was allowed through the small security checkpoints. He didn’t notice the soiled ground until the soles of his shoes started to be dyed by the color of the ground—crimson. 

It was the fifth thing that alarmed Clint, and he didn’t include the onlookers, police tape, or uniforms. Soon, he had to play a soiled game of stepping in-between pools of blood, evidence of the horrible massacre and silencing. When Clint reached Leclerc, the senior agent had a mask of stern solemnity on, and was noting down observations on his mini tablet. The expression did not change when he saw Clint, Denisov, and Clegg arrive. “Agents.”

After Pierschke’s claim this morning, Clint berated himself now for not having seen the signs of Leclerc’s obsession—or that it had lead to a strain on his marriage. It wouldn’t be the first time Natasha’s interference had caused such marital strains, although it was more indirect now than her previous approaches—something for which Clint was grateful. Leclerc gave them a brief overview.

“Takahashi Masao, former Japanese intelligence, suspended and later fired for harassment and circumstantial claims. Was diagnosed with a psychological breakdown and subsequently ‘let go’. He approached me about intel on Leonum Tarpeius. His former employer called him obsessed but he obviously posed a threat,” Leclerc informed them.

“This was no ordinary silencing,” Denisov stated gloomily, voice darkened with dispassion.

Clint had no need for further comment. It was obvious around them. Somebody hadn’t wanted Takahashi to talk. Given his claims about the Tarps, it was most likely them. Given his personal relations to one of the members in Rome, he was reluctant to make the assessment. Blood had been spilled—probably nearing the point of exsanguination, but Clint was no expert on emptying the human body of its fluids, but nor was he an amateur on the human anatomy and pain threshold. 

The masculine arm that hung clichéd from underneath the corpse sheet—as someone had yet to summon a body bag, presumably because Leclerc had wanted them to see the methods of which the man had been silenced—had been brutally dismembered, garroted with some sort of weapon at the wrist where the joint laid unprotected by bone. If Clint had to give his two cents, he’d guess it was a knife or dagger of some sort. There was no saw marks from attempts or friction. He leaned down and inspected, hands glad in blue latex gloves.

“Perpetrator—or perpetrators,” Clint added, considering the man’s size and weight and what it would have taken to hold the man down, “used a heavy blade. Cleaver-like,” he assessed as he studied the cut where the hand was missing. Blood had colored the wound and you could pinpoint where dermis stopped and epidermis began like some twisted high school biology class. 

Leclerc’s eyes showed nothing. Clegg inquired. “You seem uncertain as to singular or plural,” he stated.

“Takahashi isn’t a large man, but he’s probably trained in martial arts. That means muscle and struggle. It’s a good cut, takes more people to hold down a struggling man. I don’t suppose toxicology is back yet?” Clint asked, popping the question before resuming his justification. “Unless you’re trained good. Even at Takahashi’s size and training, if you know how to take someone down, and be efficient about it, it can be done.”

Denisov looked disbelieving but didn’t question it. “What more?” Clint asked when Leclerc didn’t seem the least assured be the assessment. In fact, he only looked absentmindedly troubled and perhaps even disgusted.

“The other hand. _La langue_. The tongue.”

He raised the sheet so that the three agents could get a better view. Clegg paled a little bit, and even Clint could admit to feeling queasy. The work someone had done on the wrist was copied (or perhaps inspired—who was to know) on the other wrist, whose hand had now been collected in a large evidence bag on-scene. The perpetrator(s) hadn’t left Takahashi alone then—at which point Clint noticed that none of the injuries were directly fatal, but merely had resulted in a fatal amount of hemorrhaging, which upon untreated, had lead to his death—and his face was a mess of blood, dirt and presumably tears. He was spitting fire in rivers of blood, or had been, until his body had been unable to sustain him no more, its precious drops of life lost on the filthy asphalt of a dirty alley. 

Leclerc dropped the sheet again, but it quickly dyed red as it clung to the half-dried blood on his face. Takahashi wouldn’t have an open casket funeral. 

“Has it, uh, been found?” Denisov asked professionally but not even he remained cold to a fellowman’s death. Clearly, Takahashi had posed a threat to the Tarps, and he’d died because of his devotion to justice—just like they could. The Leonum Tarpeius weren’t playing games anymore; they’d graduated unto greater things long ago. 

_And you work for these people, Natasha - people who cut out other people’s tongues so they won’t talk._

“… won’t talk…” Clint murmured to himself, contemplatively.

“ _Oui._ Yes. As you will come to know, the work was quite efficacious. The removal of the tongue was performed with scary accuracy.”

“Like a surgeon’s hand,” Clint supplied, maybe mostly to himself but the others heard and nodded in agreement. “Skilled.”

“And unwavering, not to mention equipped,” Leclerc continued. “Whoever removed the organ did so methodically and precisely in swift cuts, resulting in less struggle and, I hate to say, trauma.”

“They didn’t use a scalpel,” the archer said all of a sudden as he remembered the trauma to the mouth. “The roof of the mouth was unhurt. They changed blades,” he concluded with urge to empty his stomach contents the next time they approached a trashcan that wasn’t part of the crime scene.

Leclerc nodded in approval and asked Denisov’s opinion. Clint joined Clegg in silence and began to wonder. Could it be a coincidence—did such really exist? Natasha, muted by explosion, was in Rome, working for the same people who had now silenced this man eternally. He hated to suspect Natasha of having done this, but obviously he and Tasha weren’t where they’d been five years ago, or even after New York. Did Natasha have the skills to remove a man’s tongue without leaving gashes in the roof of his mouth? Yes. Anything but admitting to the fact would have been to discredit her skillset. Clint hated himself even more for agreeing with Leclerc’s assessment. Skilled. Methodical. Precise. Once Natasha put her mind to something, she succeeded with a façade of detachment. She was eerily apt for Leonum Tarpeius.

And that was why Clint Barton was here.

Anything but admitting to the fact would have been discrediting _his_ skillset.

\- 

When they returned to the taskforce central, the office was less frantic and more composed. Leclerc was still pissed about Takahashi’s state of being dead and thus unable to tell his secrets, regardless of the fact that the man had been brutally slaughtered and had his life ended before his time. Clint grimaced at the phrase. “Before his time” was something you told an agent’s widow at the funeral, as if life and death were events planned before birth. Clint was a strong believer in choice. People who chose lives as agents knew life and death was something that happened to you regardless of prior arrangements. The only person who held power over you was the one pulling the trigger. 

Pierschke sat by a desk, scowling as he listened to the other end of the video conference call with the raid squad’s team leader in Vienna. Guido was nowhere to be seen but a coffee mug twinned with Pierschke’s, so she had to be close by. The black liquid was still steaming, and a half-chewed pen laid next to it. 

“Are you certain, Jürgen?” the German asked; it wasn’t disbelief that marred his voice but the hope that he’d misheard, or that Jürgen’s assessment was wrong.

The image of the man flickered on the screen as their equipment moved. The technical glitz was gone before it could be reported. “ _Unfortunately so. There’s no one here. I think they were tipped off, because their hardware’s still here. They grabbed whatever they could and tried to torch the rest._ ”

“No prisoners, then,” Pierschke concluded, clearly dissatisfied. He’d probably had plans of grandeur—or at least happy news to report to Leclerc—when he’d been given the orders to stand by. 

“ _Affirmative. No prisoners. We’re taking whatever could be salvaged to the locals. Although there is a lot here, it looks like the pulse got to all the electronic equipment_ ,” Jürgen reported.

Beside him, Pierschke swore. Clint took over. “Are you saying we have a mole, Jürgen?”

The man wearing the tactical uniform took a couple of seconds to make his assessment; he obviously knew what such an accusation meant. They both knew the Tarps were resourceful enough to pull such stunt, but another thing was to accuse one’s fellowmates of treason. “ _I’m putting the possibility in my report, if that’s what you mean, Barton. We hadn’t briefed the locals. It was isolated and they knew we were coming._ ”

“This will be a nightmare,” Pierschke groaned. Clint could only agree. “Leclerc won’t be happy.”

“He’s pissed enough as it is,” Clint added in his own assessment.

“ _I’m beginning to appreciate that I’m in Austria_ ,” Jürgen quipped. “ _Barton, what happened?_ ”

“Leonum Tarpeius silenced a Jap. Cut off both hands and his tongue,” Clint informed them morosely. They’d know either way. 

“ _It sounds like I should treasure the wee moments I have in this country before I return_ ,” the man who found himself in another country replied. “ _Jürgen out_.”

Pierschke and Clint exchanged gazes as the agent cut the video feed. Someone had alerted the rather large group in Vienna that the taskforce was coming. Leclerc had gone through great lengths to ensure that no one knew they were coming. Regardless, they had been alerted. Once Jürgen typed his report, there would be no stopping it. Everybody would be under suspicion. Clegg, Denisov, Leclerc himself perhaps, Clint, Pierschke, Guido, Jürgen, Rosario … _every last one of them_. Despite his rather questionable relationship—past tense or present, he had no idea—with Natasha, he sure as hell hadn’t alerted the Viennese group about the raid. He hadn’t even used his smartphone during the hours between the last check-in (where the Rome department had been told the group was oblivious to being watched) and now. 

Pierschke was right. This was going to be a nightmare. Internal distrust was bred faster than mice and much more difficult to eradicate. Unless…

Clint remembered this morning. Guido had checked her phone after being informed of the raid and was now nowhere to be seen. He hated suspecting her. He’d trained her to be better. Did he have some kind of curse on him that repelled people he trusted? He scowled and slid from the desk. “I’m gonna go check up on something,” he excused himself absentmindedly.

“See you,” Pierschke muttered back, no less scowling at the situation. The day had been a bust; Takahashi was dead, his information gone, and Vienna had been alerted to the taskforce’s presence. Leclerc would be furious. Technically, Clint shouldn’t give a damn—it wasn’t Jameson or Fury, but Leclerc’s opinion mattered, and his mood even more so. 

Clint went to locate Guido. He wanted an explanation, even a poor one. He’d taught her to run, but she never quite possessed the finesse of his hardest target, so anything but Natasha would be easy. Natasha hadn’t made chase easy. She’d made it a dance, a taunting one. Guido, far less experienced if guilty, knew, should know, better than to assume him stupid. Why was she working with the Tarps? 

He ran down the stairs, trying to appear casually busy and not like he was hunting. His officemates were too busy to notice, although his behavior might be labeled suspicious once they heard Jürgen’s news about a mole. Clint wanted to be disproven; wanted to be called paranoid and be wrong. However, the same nagging sensation had lead to his reunion with Natasha, and he couldn’t quite regret that, not even after being thrown out for his betrayal.

_Only you can make me feel remorse for being right, Tasha._

He found her at the water cooler, of all things. Not Tasha, but Guido, looking every bit of relaxed, but he saw the tension in her muscles beneath that exterior, confirming his theory. Her eyes darted to him and down, apparently trying hard—too hard—to be inconspicuous. 

_I trained you better._

All pretenses were dropped when she saw his facial expression. She disposed of the plastic cup and met his eyes with a slightly more composed stance. It didn’t matter much. She saw that he knew, and she reacted to it—not with venomous denial and fierce defenses—but with a defensive stance of someone who got caught.

“Why?” he asked, hissing. He stepped closer so that the people in nearby cubicles would only see a friendly conversation between colleagues, tense due to the investigation. 

“Why what, Barton?” Her laughter was strained, her acting bad. She wasn’t hysterical, but her body was betraying the cool exterior of a peppy agent. 

“Vienna.” 

Something hardened in those innocent eyes as she realized she was caught. “Not here, Barton.”

“So it _was_ you,” he whispered. “They’re not nice people, Guido. This is stupid.”

He felt like he was repeating every word he’d said to Natasha; the only difference was that he was more pissed and hurt at Guido, and she could talk back. Natasha invoked all kinds of strange feelings in him—feelings he’d have easily distinguished between years ago, but her current alliances made it much harder. 

“Barton…” she growled in warning. He towered over her, but he heard that oh-so familiar warning of a threatened animal. Their relationship was nothing like the partnership between Phil Coulson and Clint Barton had been, but reminiscent. Phil had been forced upon Clint, too, just like Clint had had little choice when he took in Natasha. It seemed that if you recruited someone, they ended up your responsibility. 

He grabbed her elbow and slowly led her to the door. “How could you possibly have thought you’d get away with this?”

Shit, he was turning into Coulson. He was literarily quoting Coulson. _How could you possibly have thought bringing in the Black Widow would be a good idea? How could you possibly have thought you’d get away with this?_

Hindsight was a bitch, Clint concluded. 

“Guido! Barton! Leclerc wants to see you both _now_. Stop fooling around!” a gruff voice called out from a door which stood agape. There was no room for argument, and Clint sourly let go of Guido’s arm, making sure to look utterly resentful and disappointed as he made it back. 

There was the slightest of hopes when she looked down in shame in response, but Clint didn’t let things like hope rule him. 

\- 

Clint pushed the door open to his rented apartment and groaned as he stepped into the comfortable darkness. Today had been horrible. He’d had no chance to corner Guido and get an explanation, and he knew he’d have to report her the moment he stepped foot in the office tomorrow. Leclerc had assigned new orders and separated the two before he could even make accusations.

He practically slid into the armchair and wanted nothing but for sleep to take him. The wish, however, was overruled by his keen senses of observation, which immediately alerted him to something out-of-place. He listened but did not move an inch. 

The slightest of thuds; the gentlest of movement across wooden floorboards; the minor change in the atmosphere and tension; the flicker of a moving shadow. 

“ _What do you think you are doing?_ ” Clint asked in broken but comprehensive Italian. He laced the question with contemptuously bored patronization. Whoever was trying to break into his apartment had severely underestimated him, and hence he took the person for a lowly burglar who’d mistaken him for an American tourist. However, as the person—she, as it turned out—stepped into the brighter parts of the shadows, he saw a face he recognized from German footage. 

He recalled Pierschke’s words. _They mainly concern one of the Tarps, though, a younger girl they used as bait. Brutal, man, brutal._ The same girl from the scrambled footage stood before him although dressed in black clothes that had aided her stealthy approach—or would have, had he not been better trained. She obviously hadn’t expected to be discovered, but made no reproachful grimaces at him. 

“I need your help,” the girl said coldly, in English, as she sauntered to him, shielding nothing but her true intent and emotions.

“What makes you think _I’ll help_ you?” he asked while his mind assessed her. The reports had been right. She was eighteen, or something alike, but her demeanor was odd, too detached for a girl her age. He recalled the weapon still in his ankle holster. 

“Because you split on bad terms with Nikolaevna,” the girl said, the words flowing fluently from her lips. “And she’s missing now.”

“Nikolaevna…” Clint repeated, confused. Then he realized whom she meant. “Natasha’s missing?”

“You know her real name,” the girl realized with slightly widened eyes that quickly faded. When she spoke next, it was with determination; the kind forged in battle. “You left, but you know how to find her. That’s why I’m here.”

“Who are you?” he asked skeptically. “And why should I _help_ you? You guys just lynched a man in an alley!”

“You care for her,” the girl said, not offering her name, “and that’s why you’ll help regardless of what I say my name is, or what I’ve done.”

“You seem awfully sure.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “I heard you leave the house three nights ago. That was not the words of someone who would leave her out to dry.”

Clint raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”

“She didn’t leave on her own accord. She got taken, and I’ll have to find her before it’s too late. I like the odds better with you helping me.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years ago, Natasha skipped S.H.I.E.L.D. without warning—or a blood trail to follow. While in Europe, Clint stumbles across the woman who used to be his partner and old emotions flare, but under new circumstances with fatal consequence, challenging protocols and alliances. Question is not, can they trust each other—question is, can they allow whatever grows between them to be kept a secret from their employers? For the first time in years, they find themselves on opposite sides—and yearning for the touch of each other. However, can Clint accept the woman she’s become? And can Natasha learn the uneasy steps into a partnership that is anything but?
> 
> Clint reluctantly joins forces with Yelena and the Bastard to rescue a suffering Natasha... or as they call her, Nikolaevna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot apologize enough for the lack of chapters. Amidst homework and hand-ins in the IB, SPN marathons, inconvenient muse disappearances, and a friend’s promise to co-write scenes in this and then being unable to help me due to even heavier a workload than me (and a lack of passion towards this story, something which I cannot fault her for) and the premiere of Thor: The Dark World, which required cosplaying, this story got downgraded in my priorities. That, sadly, meant the readers of this story did not get to read what has long been brewing in my mind.  
> Parts of this story are co-written by user Norimn (I won’t say which) who was endured me for, well, more than parents would accept in the behavior of their own kid. She’s the devil and the angel on my shoulders, depending on how sadistic she’s feeling that day ;) Thanks, luv.

_Unknown location in Italy_

She’d been tortured before. She knew that, somewhere deep down, beneath the pain, locked away along with the abilities of how to cope with the incredible pain she was experiencing. She knew she was a person, a person capable of experiencing and sensing so much more than this overriding pain, but it was hard for the pain to stop long enough to actually recall and register the fact. Her body no longer cramped and twitched at the painful pokes and punches, but had gone limp from exhaustion and a pathetic whimpering she hoped she kept to herself.

She might have lost her voice, but she was capable plentifully of moaning and groaning in pain (not that she’d allow them the pleasure). The agony was excruciating—but she’d graduated from the pain of hot ashes of rebirth from one of the most inhuman educational systems in the world. She was someone who’d once been them, the hurter and the torturer. She should remember, but she couldn’t, in fact she could barely hear the voices demanding answers, demanding information that she could not give, the reasons of which were slipping from her grasp and understanding by the minute.

She registered shouts but they were too loud like church bells, chiming heavily like thunder. Repeatedly, buckets of water, freezing and nearly boiling (it was hard to tell, and earlier she’d been sure they alternated; now she wasn’t so sure it wasn’t a mind trick), were emptied above her, frying her system and jerking it into horrible sensation each time she managed some sort of inner restful state of peace. 

It wasn’t the worst part no, not even close. She could handle the pain; handle the sensations—if they only allowed her rest. They hadn’t, not since they had brought her here some ten hours ago, dragged her unbeaten unto a chair and smirked sadistically at the promise of future hurt. Her wrists were arrested above her in chains that had been twisted around the joints and one link had been pierced through the muscular tissue, suspending her firmly and painfully like a pig on a slaughter hook. Her shoulders were close to dislocating and her elbows had hung too long not to experience damage. Her ankles, likewise, had been wrapped in chains, her toes blue with low blood supply. A link, too, had been split and pressed through her ankle, impaling her utmost uncomfortably. Infection might already have set in, she couldn’t tell. Perhaps the water did some good. 

She was reaching the point of indifference and apathy, and that was dangerous. The method was akin to crucifixion, and had her mind not been slurred, she might have been able to name the man who’d taught these goons. They weren’t amateurs, but every graduate had a former master, and she had been around long enough to be familiar with most methods and original practitioners. 

She wanted to scream the pain away as they plunged a knife, small of size but adequate for the intended damage, into the gap between two of her lower ribs. The force of the stabbing made her body twist, and the pain caused her to clutch the chain even harder, her palms pressing against the sweaty iron in an attempt to brace herself for the force of the plunge as it echoed through her hands like a blow with an iron pipe unto bone. She winced and was rewarded with dark laughter. 

Coughs shook her body and she spat blood, staining the filthy floor even further in a brazen attempt to be defiant. “This is for Marco, _bitch_ ,” her torturer hissed hatefully, his body seething with anger.

Had she had more strength, she would have used it to her advantage. Anger compromised you and weakened you. It made you make mistakes. Quite honestly, she had no idea who “Marco” was. They mistook her silence for defiance, which was more tragic than it should have been. She didn’t consider herself innocent, so there was always the possibility of actually having harmed this Marco. She couldn’t deny that in the end, their intense method might work. Problem was—would they even notice? If so, there was no problem. 

The Italian man didn’t wait long until he drew another knife. They were small, delivering relatively small damage, but they hurt still. He stabbed her in the thigh until a sharp hiss emerged from her lips, and twisted the blade painfully slow. His eyes were attached to her face, expectant of the smallest signs of discomfort, and she wanted him to bleed and hurt as he received the tiniest of defeatist expressions. 

“ _No così trionfante ora_ ,” he whispered, his face almost cracked in two so wide was his smile. She snarled at him and struggled in her chains. Even if she hadn’t known Italian, she would have been capable of deciphering his arrogant boastfulness. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you speaking. You’ll be screaming in no time, _signorina_ …” he promised darkly. 

She coughed and spat, the mucus landing in a small pile on his boot. She smirked modestly at the small victory. It earned her a major tap on the head, which sent painful throbs through her skull. She winced at the sound her neck made at the whack, but didn’t otherwise show weakness. 

Her vision was red on her left eye. She couldn’t tell if it was the color of her hair combined with blurred vision, or blood, but by the way it burned whenever she blinked too hard, she figured it was blood and grime. Her rough-handed torturer wasn’t exactly delicate. She’d done an assessment of injuries about two hours ago, and had added five more things to the growing lists of pains. She felt her body recover from the shock of the injury and register the pain of three fractured ribs, a possibly broken jaw – no, not quite, she assessed, as she allowed her tongue to roam her gums and check for pangs of pain, before she allowed it to rest on her collarbone ( _that_ , however, was definitely broken) – and the sizzling pains of multiple stab wounds. She hoped the knives were clean. If they were, her amplified regenerative abilities would kick in if offered brief rest. 

The asshole had been working on her for the past three hours. He didn’t seem to be tiring at the rate she was, which disagreed with her. He was getting awfully chatty, though. “Think you can kill whoever you want without consequence. See, that is not how it works.” 

Her head hung indifferently due to her strained muscles and her vision was becoming sluggish, a fading focus. ‘What are you talking about?’ she mouthed, doubting he had enough brains to realize her muteness. 

Quick as a striking serpent, he caught her chin between two fingers and pressed, causing her split lip to bulge. Eyes were forced to watch him, his filthy face, the hair too greasy with product, and the eyes small, dark and rodent-like. His breath smelled like day-old vodka and cigarettes. If she hadn’t before, she felt like vomiting now. “What, cat caught your tongue? You’ll pay for Marco’s death, don’t even bother feigning ignorance!” he spat and pushed her back violently in his anger. 

The chains followed the motion, but swung in her flesh. She bit her lip – the un-split one – to prevent herself from screaming. She hit the wall with a deafening crack, and black dots invaded her vision. She swung back towards him, docilely breathless from the blow. Her thoughts wandered – wandered off and drifted to a place from the harm while the pain continued its consistent toll. It was bitter, really, that she admired their consistency (along with sick and twisted and a whole bunch of likeminded words). She came to with a standoffish sense of vivacity, remembering herself and her mission. 

She thought about the Bastard and Yelena, and whether or not they’d come her for. Doubtlessly, Desta didn’t want to see her harmed, but he was in Malta and knew little about her current condition until it was reported, and that would probably occur too late. The last three weeks were replayed before her inner eye in some sort of déjà vu where intervention was impossible. She remembered the fight (inadequate word, really, but she didn’t have a thesaurus nearby, so it’d have to do) with Clint and felt something like remorse run its course. She shouldn’t have been as judgmental. He shouldn’t have, either, but she shouldn’t have gotten as emotional about it. Of course he had his reasons to think her so utterly immoral. Problem was, he didn’t know all the facts, all the standpoints. If he had, he wouldn’t have been so quick to judge. 

_I’m sorry, Clint. I promised myself I’d never regret, and here I am, regretting._ She snorted mentally at her sentimentality, and for some reason, remembered Kraus’ teasing, departing words, and more importantly, her own, which applied to her own situation. _She still loves you. You’re complaining she’s not in love with you_.

_He still loves you. You’re bitter he’s not in love with you, but his delusions of who you could be and used to be_ , a voice added. Her cynical self remarked the illogic of the conclusion, but she had little strength for inner dialogues. 

Was she really upset that Clint had chosen his job’s morals and his sense of righteousness above her? There had been a time when she’d been too fearful to ask devotion of Clint, certain he’d give it to her. Now she was irritated he hadn’t. Ruefully, she blamed herself. She could have explained herself in a fashion that wouldn’t have prompted him to spy on her. She had too many boxes to hide for common espionage to be successful. 

Desta controlled her like a doll, the only thing from his reach her past. He was resourceful the way trained ones were and only could be, observant to a fault. In exchange for her loyalty he’d offered something few criminals could: sanctuary for those she needed protected. 

_You are no one’s. A shadow of a shade. That’s how I like you. You are the night dagger. I have your loyalty, not your heart._

No, Desta didn’t, but he had something much more valuable. But what if Clint had her heart and she was once asked to choose? She’d never followed its whims before. Maybe it was too late to begin. 

She twitched and jerked into wakefulness as her nervous system was put to the test. Electricity coursed through her at reasonably low setting, and her teeth clattered. She groaned in lack of preparation. Dammit, she’d been trained to withstand and endure torture! It angered her more than weakened her to be unable to do that. She buried herself deep into the maze of Red Room installed mechanisms that had once prevented her from functioning as a human being. The training that had helped her cope into the life as Nikolaevna, no first name. 

She didn’t have to be a person. She’d functioned as an independent operative for long enough to be superior to the pain. Red Room had bred forward in her a capacity for pain, mechanisms to employ a sadomasochistic nature in the face of pain and come out on top. Their methods were cruel, but they had worked simply, and proven hard in the past to override. Nikolaevna possessed certain traits Natalia Romanova had arrogantly prided herself with. 

Natasha had named him, this torturer, in a moment of vice and creative profanities. It wasn’t particularly stellar, but it fitted the purpose of naming him—of registering upon the list in her mind of persons that would no longer live, should she be freed—and hence he became the Prey. The Prey seemed to satisfy himself with torturing her, but he was unaware of the images that passed before his victim’s eye, images of creative vengeance. The ideas that spawned in her head were truly vile and violent, a dance to the Prey’s crude fight. He exhausted himself as much as he exhausted Natasha. 

She bided her time. Meanwhile, the Prey was watching her as she barely kept back whimpers. “Oh, don’t strain yourself,” he laughed darkly. “You’ll need your strength. Belinda will see to it,” he promised before he made his departure. She didn’t like the tone of his voice. Not one bit. 

\- 

_Rome, Italy_

\- 

Clint wasn’t sure what he was doing (well, he was wrong on that one—he was rescuing Natasha); he just wasn’t sure _how_ he was doing it (again, the answer fell quite obvious—with the help of two members of the same organization he was currently trying to, and assigned to exterminate). All this lead to a conclusion he’d known all along: that he was beyond compromised. He should quit the taskforce assignment this very instant and go back to S.H.I.E.L.D., hoping the names Leonum Tarpeius and Nikolaevna never came across his desk. 

That’s what he _should_ do. 

Right now he was back in Natasha’s lair—for the lack of a better term—with a girl who’d talked him into joining this band of rescuers. She’d told him a name, but if it was hers, he wasn’t to estimate. Still, it sure beat having to refer to her as “that girl”, although it might have helped him maintain some distance towards her as a person. Right now she was his only means of getting to Natasha—he’d have to suffer the consequences of this alliance later. But he sure as hell wasn’t trusting these two anytime soon, that was for sure. 

Yelena’s “friend” turned out to be a nearly seven feet tall man who looked like he had the mind to be underestimated in a fight of cunning. In fact, Clint was already pretty uncomfortable already with the fact that this man openly distrusted him. He offered no name, and so neither did Clint. He supposed it was for the better—this way, neither would be capable of ratting the other out. 

This unnamed friend and Yelena weren’t used to working each other. They had an instable routine and Clint wouldn’t have been surprised if they told him they hadn’t worked together before. They didn’t complement each other like long-time partners did. That much was evident. They had potential, though. Yelena, young and for most parts, ambitious, evidently educated, seemed rebellious in the light of the man’s calm and uncaring calculation. The man was troubled with the abduction but not enough to warrant erratic behavior. He seemed to be weighing the options, displeased with the situation that had clearly spun out of control. 

“The Italians,” he snickered and kicked the chair. He’d been sitting calmly by the oak desk of Natasha’s study. “It’s the fucking Italians!” He cursed and tore his eyes from the email he was reading. 

“Who?” said both Clint and Yelena in partial confusion and ignorance. 

“The Italians. She finished off one in Berlin. He came for the Hexad, got in the way. Nikolaevna took him down smoothly. ‘Told me about it herself. He had to have been mafia.” The man gritted his teeth spitefully. “I hate the mob.” 

Yelena looked at Clint and shrugged casually in conclusion. “He hates the mob.” 

“Where are they keeping her?” he asked, seeing as the man seemed to have some sort of information (having known and concluded who’d taken Tasha from his source of intel on the tablet). 

“That depends,” the Brit said cryptically, his accent lacing the words with a sophistication that was the circumstances improper. “Who do you want to be?” 

“Bastard, that’s irrelevant now,” Yelena interjected, impatient and displeased. “He’s not being recruited, he wants to help. And if we want to increase the odds of us actually surviving this little display of incompetence, we’ll need all the help we can get.” 

“Fine then,” the Brit growled. “That depends,” he rephrased, eyes watchfully on Clint. “Can we trust you?” 

“To save Na—,” he corrected himself, “ _Nikolaevna_ , yes.” 

“You know a name,” the Brit said, brows raised in surprise. It seemed as if he hadn’t expected Clint to know their cohort as well as he did. Clint didn’t know whether to be offended or not, but prized secrecy above pride, so he said nothing. Unless Natasha had experienced a total personality change, he knew her far better than these people, as she never openly shared information about herself (he’d been forced to analyze and deduce for himself, often leading to rightful conclusions). 

“So do I,” Yelena reasoned. “It means nothing.” 

“Yeah, but you’re different. Nikolaevna chose to take you on board. Him? He could be nothing but a lay from a bar nearby.” The Brit scoffed in disdain. 

“She’s not _you_.” The teen seemed anxious and impatient, aware that each minute could possibly be the one that transpired simultaneously with Natasha’s last breath. Clint valued such notions. Yelena had crossed her arms, locking them firmly. 

_Natasha, what impression have you made – what have you done – to cause such loyalty in a girl who’s knee-deep in this nightmare?_

“I know some people I can call. It’ll cost us, though,” the Brit explained, evidently willing to contact the people but reluctant to do so. 

“If he finds out Nikolaevna died due to our lack of intervention, we’re dead already,” Yelena argued. “I prefer being in debt to being dead.” 

An eerie sense of déjà vu ran through Clint at those words and he eyed the youngster suspiciously. He’d known another girl with delusions of debts and deaths. He’d saved a girl from Red Room who’d said almost those exact words and spent six years repaying an imaginary debt. 

Meanwhile, the Brit cracked a small smile. “You’re learning quickly, girl. That’s good.” 

\- 

_Unknown location, Italy_

_\- Undisclosed amount of time later (that day)_

\- 

“Wakey, wakey,” an excited voice chirped from a fair number of metres away, owing to her prediction of the size of the room. She’d previously tried to make an assessment of exits and size, by the light was tricky and dim at best, too filthy not to incite shadows. 

Heels clicked against concrete as the speaker made her way towards Natasha, coming to a halt a couple of seconds later, upon which the scrape of something metallic became audible. “You’re no fun,” the mystery woman said in her petite tone. “Not even a greeting?” 

She moved closer, rounding the area Natasha was suspended within with measured steps. “But please, excuse my rudeness. I haven’t introduced myself. I am your company for the next period of time. Be it hours—” The blade of a knife ran up her upper arm from the joint—not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough that she could feel the cold sharpness, a dull pain bordering on merely annoying spreading through her arm, “—or be it days. Personally, I kind of hope for days,” she added wickedly, expectantly. 

She stepped back, withdrawing the knife from Natasha’s exposed skin. A red line of irritated skin came into view. The woman tilted her head. “You may call me Belinda. Even if they tell me you don’t speak much, it’s only good form for you to have something to call me – especially,” she whispered, and here she got a truly predatory and menacing look on her face, “when you cry out for me.” 

Belinda cackled as if deeply amused. Natasha looked up, straining her neck to perform the proud action. For seconds, she watched her newest torturer. Her wickedness seemed misplaced because she was petite and delicate and blonde and everything feminine and innocent, according to most Disney movies, anyway. Natasha knew enough never to think that about this Belinda whose brown eyes – thankfully not blue – had hardened to whatever tragedy had befallen her. Natasha didn’t pity her loss of innocence. Sooner of later, it’d had to happen, and Belinda was one of those women who’d obviously chosen the tough life above the life of rose petals and magazines and chatty hairdressers, or the false safety of computer screens and local police protection promises. 

In simplest terms, Belinda was the mob’s finest asset. She had to be mob. There was a certain element of coordination to the setup, organization (hell, this place was probably far from anything meaningful or civilian). Natasha knew how it worked. Young damsels were underestimated—she’d played the part so many times. She’d killed many people looking like a young, hopeful ballerina, including the innocence behind dead eyes. She’d killed in the appearance of a porcelain doll with the most delicate of smiles and blushing cheeks. She’d buried the world in blood-stained tutus and cocktail dresses with revealing cleavages and sweetheart appearances, switching between the, interchangeably. 

“I’m no fool,” Belinda informed her, her tiny voice laced with an expectant venom. “I can see that look in your eyes. You’re not something untainted. I see your scars, I see that coldness.” She paused, not disappointed with her assessment. “I see a challenge.” 

With a crack, the whip – which had up until now been concealed and kept from Natasha’s view – fell harshly upon skin, erupting in a muffled cry. It was partially metallic, that was for sure. It left behind an angry line of red on the skin of her stomach as blood rushed to the skin. The prisoner inhaled sharply and thought of the Prey’s techniques. They, at least, had been predictable. Belinda seemed highly unstable herself. Her joy was subtle, though, a contained smile that was processed though a dimple. 

She curtsied gingerly at the success and waved the whip aptly in her hand like a fire dancer’s stave. Natasha could envision her performance, and her commitment might once, if benign, have been called admirable and _sweet_.

Belinda leaned in, but maintained enough distance so that the illusion of safety wasn’t breached, so that Natasha could not harm her, and that she possibly wouldn’t harm Natasha back. “That man you killed in Berlin? My brother,” she whispered, not visibly upset. She shrugged. “I don’t blame you. It’s not personal. Didn’t like him much. So don’t be remorseful. He’d probably have died soon anyway.” 

The whip burned against her skin again—this time upon her face, leaving her cheek aching raw. The burning sensation coursed through her body and she forced her head backwards to distance herself from her pain, hoping to alleviate the agony. Belinda wouldn’t be fast, no; despite her rapid moves, she’d drag the torture out slowly, hoping to make Natasha beg for death. 

The young woman chuckled and picked up what she had been dragging behind her. With gentle movements, she caressed the handle like an old lover. She reminded Natasha of whom she’d once been. A cold girl with dead eyes and a fondness of pain and performance whose only source of entertainment and vivacity was acting out the part she’d been cast for. She was, given her age (it would be sufficient to conclude that Belinda was not enhanced, aside from a rather wicked indulgence), the potential of what Belova could become, if the situation was left un-intervened. 

Natasha tasted blood on her tongue and coughed, randomly spattering the ground below. Fine, crimson drops painted a pattern on the filthy floor of the small room of a warehouse. Her eyes zoomed in on the details without her consent, and everything else blurred in a nauseating theft of sight. 

She heard Belinda step around her to where her back, flayed and naked aside from a bra whose underwire was digging into an open stab wound between two ribs, was exposed. It made breathing laborious, but she was managing, indecently, like a gasping fish on land. She tensed, unable to prepare herself for the impact of injury. She heard the metallic pieces of the torture device—which probably had another purpose, but light was dim here, and so she was left with her somewhat disabled hearing sense as the strongest aside from that of touch—move and be lifted as it gathered potential energy for deployment. 

It didn’t prepare her for the agony of having all available oxygen hauled from her lungs and the powerful push of heavy metal being thrown against damaged and weakened flesh of her spine and back, and the tug in the chains, forced forward by the power and speed of the attack, futilely attempting to shield itself, which hung in bruised wrists and actual meat. Her toenails scraped against concrete floor, and a nail fled its position on a toe. 

The prisoner held back a cry of pain, clearly disappointing the torturer whose hope was strangulated at the lack of victory. Frustrated, she lifted the knife she’d previously used teasingly, and flung it maniacally across Natasha’s back, in deep gaps and endless voids; in superficial cuts and grazes, mad and rabid with her own ambition, adamant to be the person in the room with the power and control. In her attempt to maintain so, she lost the control. 

Natasha would have laughed if she’d been able. Instead, a halfhearted snort came out before it drowned in pains and incomprehensible, incoherent mental pleas. 

\- 

_Mentana, Italy – 29 kilometers outside Rome_

_That evening_

\- 

The Brit’s contacts did more than just know who’d taken Natasha. It _was_ the Italians, and it _was_ the mob, a faction of it anyhow, lead by a woman with an unsettling reputation. Who, as the Brit found out, had just lost a brother in a stabbing in Berlin. This did not bide well for Tasha’s treatment. It unsettled Clint further that the description of the woman was practically an echo of the assessment that had once been made for him on the Black Widow. Not that he was planning to offer Belinda DeLuca any mercies or deals. 

The contacts were also willing to reveal the location of the abductors. The DeLucas had residence in Mentana from which they—now her—operated. Her brother, Marco DeLuca, had most likely been Natasha’s victim in Berlin (the Brit seemed reluctant to share any details, not eager to possibly criminalize Nikolaevna further in Clint’s presence), which complicated any plans for negotiations. 

Despite the sheer illegality of the situation, Clint couldn’t help but notice the eerie similarity to a tactical team’s approach to a hostile environment. The trio wore no Kevlars, but they each had strapped illegally seized weapons and firearms on their person—Yelena’s amount and familiarity had unsettled Clint momentarily—and looked more than ready to take down a small colony. 

He heard a weapon being checked and loaded, a magazine clip being pressed into the chamber. An agent for more than half his life, Clint’s natural reaction to the sound was to look over his shoulder. He almost expected to see Natasha, grinning at him with daredevilry in her eyes. Instead stood Yelena, attention on the gun in her hand. She didn’t look inexperienced around it. 

“So,” Clint heard himself converse despite his personal vow to distance himself from these two criminals. “What did that mean, what he said?” He gestured towards the direction the Brit had gone to do reconnaissance. They had encountered one guard whom they’d silently knocked out. “That she chose to take you on board.” 

Yelena looked unimpressed but reluctant. “Does it matter?” she asked. 

“No.” He paused. “Not if he didn’t mean it.” 

She eyed him as if he was the strangest sample of the species she’d encountered. Maybe he was. He was arming himself to storm a compound to rescue a woman who was plenty of capable. “Why do you care? Nikolaevna take pets, she doesn’t take lovers, but you seem like an odd exception.” 

He didn’t know what to say. He looked down at Yelena’s hands. If he deluded himself a little bit (which at this point was justifiable), ignoring the lack of seasonal veteran scars, he could pretend those hands were Natasha’s. They surely handled the gun with the same dexterity. Usage would prove if she was as competent. Due to this pretension, he wasn’t sure if he was imaging things when he saw a mark on the young girl’s hand. He grabbed it rudely for inspection and was met by the barrel of the handgun – a Colt model, if he wasn’t wrong (and weapons were kinda his thing, wasn’t it?) – being dug into his ribs. The face that met him on Yelena was no-nonsense. 

He let go of her hand reluctantly but instantly. “Apologies. It’s just… I recognized that mark.” He pointed at her hand and realized it was the – would be, in Tasha’s case – space in-between the fingers that weren’t on the Black Widow anymore. He hadn’t given it any thought. Guess it was wrong, the thing about only noticing things when they were gone. Clint hadn’t noticed that Natasha no longer carried the small Black Widow hourglass on her hands, the small but unmistakable tattoo she’d received way back when. 

Yelena tried to shrug it off. She withdrew her hand and hastily wiped it in the fabric of her pants, as if it’d somehow make it—and the probably painful memories that went along with it—go away. “So what.” 

“You’re a Black Widow,” he deduced, mouth half agape with the kind of calm surprise he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of. Few things surprised him anymore, and those that did apparently had Natasha’s connections all over it. He would have smirked if the situations hadn’t been so serious. Hell, he’d have laughed even if that had been, had Natasha been by his side. 

“Shut up,” she growled. She rechecked the gun as if someone had had their hands on it in the brief time between checking it last time and now. “I’m not, okay. I was meant to be, but then I wasn’t. Evidently.” Yelena rolled her eyes. 

“That’s why you offered the deal. Nat’s training you, isn’t she?” he hissed. 

Yelena opened her mouth to snap at him, but the Brit came back, enlightening them in the cone of red light of the flashlight. His face, semi-obscured, looked professionally amused. “You two behaving, or am I gonna have to separate you?” 

Clint eyed the girl and reached what he’d later dub silent mutual agreement. The Brit briefed them. “Not a lot of muscle, but they do have fine toys.” He gestured to the automatic assault rifle in his hands and stroked its barrel with something akin to fondness. Yelena whistled in admiration. 

“What’s the plan?” Clint asked. 

“Five guards are posted around the building. From what I’ve seen in the windows, just as many inside, if not more. Not a hotspot but enough to get ugly if they’re all carrying these babies.” He padded the assault rifle. “Guy I stiffed told me DeLuca is inside. Apparently, she’s getting real cozy.” 

The Brit’s face grimaced and twitched in disapproval at his own words. They all got solemn looks on their faces. Surprisingly, the Brit then looked at Clint. “So, got a plan?” 

Clint went through the factors and variables in his head, scheming. He’d have smirked that mischievous smile he hadn’t smirked in a long while if it hadn’t been his Tasha DeLuca was getting cozy with. “Yeah,” he said casually. “But I’m gonna need all your help.” 

Before S.H.I.E.L.D., Clint had been army. Black ops, due to his incredible aim, but black ops had taught him, along with the darker sides of humanity, to strategize. He doubted he could outshine Natasha’s abilities—because those were outright _scary_ —but they were good enough to rival hers. He hoped—no, he _prayed_ —that they were good enough to lead this team of distrusting misfits in a rescue. With the variables the Brit had provided, including himself, the Brit, Yelena, and what they knew of Belinda DeLuca’s type, he strategized. 

“We have the element of surprise. For about a few minutes more, until they discover their missing guard. We go in, and we go in fast. The estate’s large, but the house itself is southbound. Means there are grounds to cover from here. We have to prepare for the worst.” He caught Yelena’s eyes. “If she is alive and can walk, good. If she can fire a gun, better. But if she can’t—“

“Tactics, Bonaparte?” the Brit rushed, evidently not considering it important to share what they were all coming up with of worst-case scenarios in the urgent situation. 

_Really? Bonaparte? Jesus, you can do better than—_. “There’s no strength in numbers here. You both look like you’re the damned that escaped hell. You pack a mean punch.” 

The Brit and Yelena looked like they agreed. They also didn’t look like much of a fighting tactical team. Clint had done worse damage with less. However, if a man who could look more intimidating than a girl with Black Widow training, had at the very least Clint’s training (which he appeared to have, and then some), maybe the odds weren’t half bad. 

Odds meant shit if Tasha was dead, though. Because something inside Clint told him that if Tasha was dead, there really was no going back. He’d have collaborated with criminals, with terrorists, have broken his own holy line in the sand, without reason. If, however, she was alive—and there were plenty of past experiences that assured him she could endure (but that was when she hadn’t been broken and alone)—he knew, despite himself, that it’d be worth it. 

He got the taste of something sour in his mouth as he looked sideways at the camaraderie between Yelena and the Brit; the devotion and willingness to rescue their cohort and ally, even if it meant working with someone they hardly knew. He remembered how he’d portrayed them in his critique. _You left S.H.I.E.L.D. so you could go off and join these people? Murderers and terrorists? Don't you dare compare us to these immoral bastards!_

He swallowed, closed his eyes and braced himself for gunfight. Remorsefully—because he knew it was wrong—he began to understand these people. 

After all, it hadn’t been _them_ who had hunted her down. 

\- 

Three minutes later, he (and at least one of the others, from the muffled sounds of gunfire and regular body thumps from upstairs) had breached the perimeter. He’d engaged in his first brawl and had ducked just in time to avoid a stray bullet that would have reminded his ribs of their mortality. 

He had the job of searching, and plummeting, it seemed, through the lower levels of the compound. There were three, and assignment had been swift. He was currently covering around the corner of a hallway while bullets whipped by. A waste of ammunition. Once it ceased, he heard footsteps across glass shards, presumably from the door he’d crashed as he’d taken out the first guard he’d spotted. That guy laid on the ground, a round hole in his forehead, blood oozing from the sides of the bullet that was still lodged in there. He wasn’t getting up, but his partner sure was throwing a hissy fit. 

Clint took his chances, calmed his breath and whipped out the compound bow. The feel of it in his hands were sweeter than anything he’d felt in a while, painlessly simple, and elegant in a way the world never would be. He’d hidden its presence when he and the two Tarps had armed themselves, not ready to answer questions and certainly not ready to be recognized. He nocked the arrow with precision and the Mafioso looked taken aback even as the arrow protruded from his chest and stopped the practical way his heart tended to beat. He fell, and Clint hesitated before stepping to his side, grabbing his assault rifle (thus disarming him) and yanking the arrow from his chest. Best not leave any evidence of Hawkeye’s presence. 

Clint stowed the bow and quiver away across his back where it rested almost invisibly against the black fabric. He felt naked without it, but this mission required stealth, not recognition, and he’d sacrifice his bow for Tasha any day. The man Yelena and the Brit had dragged in for muscle didn’t, to their knowledge, walk around and shoot people like some shorthaired, wacko version of Legolas. 

The archer was quick to put the hallway behind him, listening acutely for any footsteps. Upon hearing none and witnessing no evidence to disprove this conclusion, Clint continued hastily. The residence looked like something you got when you tried to mix storage facilities with residential areas. A clash between home and work, a warehouse-turned-home, or maybe it was the other way around. Clint was distracted from these pointless conclusions when he heard a sharp sound of gunshot—too close for it to have been upstairs; the sound was too close, the ceilings not thin enough—followed by the sound of… chains? 

It wasn’t what he’d expected, but that didn’t slow him down. He broke into a speedy jog, torn between stealth and fast approach, both of which distracted him from the fist that came flying at him out of nowhere. 

_Smack_. He hit the floor backwards, blood emerging through his nasal cavity. He blinked once and flew up again, _pissed_. It was the second time this week someone had slapped him (although this didn’t exactly count as a slap, more of a punch). His leg kicked and swept his opponent off their feet, evidently surprised by his speedy recovery, and he was satisfied with the crunch he heard as the back of their head collided with the floor. 

As his vision became one instead of a messy mesh of double vision, he noticed the door from which the assailant had come. It was yawning, a foreboding mash-up of sounds coming from it, like a preview from hell. He moved towards it but felt a jerk in his ankle as said assailant grabbed it and pulled hard to disorient Clint and disturb his balance. 

Sure, Clint fell, but he dug his knee into the man’s throat first and knew from personal experience it hurt. A lot. The man struggled, of course, as any sane man would have done, but Clint pinned his arms down with his legs, and the man’s legs down with the weight of his body, long enough for him to empty more than a couple of cartridges into the man’s chest, which soon looked like a mashed blood orange. It wasn’t a good analogy, but he was dead regardless of Clint’s poor choice in words. 

It was with laborious breathing that Clint got up, a bit wobbly at first, but determination fueled his strength, and pushed the door open. Before him stretched a room the size of a generous prison cell, or alternatively, a warehouse storage room. It was dark aside from a wide cone of light emerging from the ceiling, downwards enlightening an unmistakably familiar figure whose curves he knew almost better than his own. He restrained himself from running to her, because he could see another figure, this one unchained and unharmed, moving in the periphery of the light. Belinda DeLuca. 

His blood was boiling already, but his mind was clear and detached. She didn’t seem to have noticed his entrance, or if she had, she assumed him to be one of her own. His trigger finger twitched above the trigger. It’d be so easy. One bullet and she’d drop dead, unable to redeem herself. He didn’t, though. The woman spoke, not to him, but to her object of attention. 

“You disappoint me. Here I am, offering fun and my full attention, and you’re being so awfully selfish. Didn’t anybody teach you manners? It’s impolite to ignore your hostess,” she chastised. 

Natasha. Only then did Clint get himself to look at her, really _look_ at her. It was sickening and brought him back to dozens of these situations in the past. How many times had he found her like this—or her him—tortured, beaten, barely breathing? He sucked in a breath and before he knew it, he had the gun in his hand, outstretched pointing at the woman whom he assumed to have been the torturer of _his partner_. 

“Hey, DeLuca!” he heard himself shout. Two heads shot in his direction. He pulled the trigger instantaneously, only watching one face, the one that always mattered. Out of the corner of his eye, Belinda dropped to the ground. 

Clint never stopped watching Natasha’s frozen look of bewilderment and disbelief. Her lips moved through incredible pain. ‘Clint—!’ 

He followed her line of sight, just in time to hurry aside as a corpse fell through the doorway with a loud thud. It’d have taken Clint down with him. The Brit followed, stepping over the poor bastard’s body, marching disrespectfully across his back. His eyes found the suspended woman quickly, but Clint didn’t have time to think about that. He’d practically leapt down the stairs, three steps a pace, rushing past Belinda. His eyes widened in horror as he took in Natasha. 

The fucking bastards had pressed fucking chain-links into her skin. Fucking bastards. “I’ll kill them,” he vowed darkly as he stretched to fumble with the chain around—and through, he added mentally with a wince—her left wrist. Natasha moaned in pain at the smallest of frictions. “I’ll fucking _kill them_ ,” he hissed more hastily. 

“Bonaparte!” the Brit called and it was only by chance Clint tore his eyes from Natasha and reacted. 

The man had a discarded bolt cutter in his hands – which Clint suspected hadn’t been placed here to cut metal – which he promptly threw in Clint’s direction. The archer caught it and barely thought (although he was glad he did) before he aimed the grip of the bolt cutter above the links of the chain. “I need you to hold her,” he said. 

The Brit caught on immediately – which freaked Clint out more than the body through the door had – and supported Natasha as the bolt cutter cut through the chains a couple of links above the link that had been pressed through Natasha’s arms. 

He kept his eyes off her the best he could. He knew his detachment wouldn’t last long if he knew the full extent of her injuries. He’d see red. He’d burn this place down regardless if its inhabitants were alive or not. Despite knowing this, however, he grabbed for her when he saw her collapse into the Brit’s arms. 

“Let me,” he offered and pleaded. He gave the Brit a don’t-question-me glare and the tall man obeyed. He transferred the barely alive woman unto Clint’s arms. Clint had never minded that burden. “Let’s get outta here.” 

“That depends on how well Belova’s doing,” the Brit hissed, once again turning towards the door—the sole exit of the room. 

‘You brought… Yelena?’ Natasha croaked from her semi-dead state. Clint only noticed because she dug her finger into his sternum to get his attention and didn’t cease until he’d read her lips. 

“Shh, gather your strength,” Clint urged her as he felt her tense in his arms. He breathed in the scent of pain and blood and sweat. Many mistook it for death. Clint took it for proof of life, of vivacity. 

The next door to the small hallway of the basement storage room slammed open, revealing a bleeding Yelena who was busy fighting (or getting fought by) two assailants who were obviously getting the upper hand. It wasn’t that Yelena’s style wasn’t ferocious—it was, and Clint had come to suspect Natasha for influencing it—but that these Mafioso were trained and obviously unaware that their leader and source of loyalty was dead. 

The Brit was there to aid her instantly. However, a third emerged, slipping through the two fights, and Clint had to put Natasha down to exclude her from the fight. He came down hard upon the man with the trained and precise moves of the S.H.I.E.L.D. black ops division. He had to be quick. Knocking the guy harshly out, he kept punching until—

_Bang_. A gunshot rang out, startling everybody. His eyes shot to Natasha, who somehow managed to keep a standing position, towering over Belinda who seemed to have, before she got shot in the back of course, been crawling towards the nearest weapon. Natasha’s eyes looked mad and cold altogether, both hands clutching the gun to steady her aim. Then she threw the weapon aside, grabbed the machete-like knife on the ground, pulled Belinda’s head backwards by the hair, and cut her neck, ear-to-ear. 

Blood gushed out of the blonde’s throat and Natasha let go of the hair, so that Belinda DeLuca fell down in her own blood unceremoniously. Natasha kept still like that for an insurmountable amount of time, while the Brit and Yelena finished off their targets. She was straddling the corpse of Belinda from behind, something vengeful and exhausted in her expression. Blood tainted her complexion, multiple wounds with blood oozing. 

Clint had never seen anything so broken be so beautiful in all his life. Then she crashed, her body unable to put off rest any longer, and it shut down before his eyes, a complete reboot and blackout. Clint stumbled across the floor and barely caught her broken body in time. 

“Tash! Tasha! Dammit, you…!” he snapped breathlessly, wanting her to snap back at him, to say something that’d make it all better, something sarcastic. He wanted it so much he even forgot about her speech disabilities. It didn’t work. She laid motionless and unresponsive in his arms, a peaceful expression never settling. 

“Come on, Bonaparte, we haven’t got all day!” the Brit said harshly to get his attention, to get him to tear his eyes off the collapsed Natasha. “Yelena heard more vehicles arrive. We need to leave _now_!” 

Clint turned his attention back to Natasha, whose hands were fisted into his shirt. 

‘Anatolij,’ she gasped in her sleep, a soundless murmur. ‘Anatolij,’ she repeated in a mantra. 

“Let’s go,” he told the Brit in a solemn voice full of desperation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the over-use of Yelena here. Plus the occasionally sappy ending of this chapter. Hopefully updates will be more frequent than they were in the past two months.


End file.
